


Alive

by SatsunonSavior



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Kissing, Bad French, Chronal Disassociation, Dry Humping, F/F, Face-Sitting, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, French Kissing, Frenemies, Grinding, Groping, Hair-pulling, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Injury, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Latex, Light Angst, Murder, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Past Brainwashing, Romance, Simultaneous Orgasm, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6847654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatsunonSavior/pseuds/SatsunonSavior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I was a girl, I had a fear of spiders.<br/>I was told they felt no emotion. That their hearts never beat.<br/>But I know the truth now.</p><p>I don't have to kill to feel alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alive

The sun shone down with a bright, overbearing light onto the abandoned facility. Noon was coming, and the day only promised to get hotter still. The light shone down on rusted steel doors, and chain-link fencing that rattled in the dry breath of a breeze. The signs that adorned it were bleached from the onslaught of the sun, and chipped by the vagaries of time, but their messages remained clear. 

_Keep Out_

_PETRAS ACT_

_Closed by Executive Mandate_

_No Trespassing_

 

The armored forms that slipped through the gaps in the fencing paid no heed to the signs demands.

Fifteen men; a platoon of dark shapes in dark armor bare of insignia, they rushed from cover to cover with a machine like efficiency, their rifle barrels tracking every motion, seeking every corner, sniffing the air like hunting dogs.

Behind them followed two singular shapes, a study in contrasts. One, a living shadow of a man, was swathed in dark fabric despite the burning heat. He carried a pair of heavy weapons somewhere between pistols and shotguns, obviously custom made and just as obviously an extension of his own body- as suited to him as a pair of well-fitted gloves. He moved with a smoothness that made him appear only just human, somehow fuzzy around the edges, as if he might blur into smoke should his concentration waver.

Beside him, moving with a liquid grace, was a woman.

She was not merely  _a_  woman, nor was she  _his_ woman. To call her such would be a grave disservice.

Where he was shadowy and insubstantial, she was coiled and graceful. She wore a tight-fitting garment somewhere between a cat-suit and a mere coat of purple paint over bare skin. The only other thing she wore was a complex looking visor, adorned with eight lenses of varying sizes scattered in such a manner as to suggest an arachnoid visage. She carried a rifle over one shoulder with enough strength to make it look natural, and enough ease to make herself look professional doing it. Her skin was tinted to an unhealthy blue pallor, so that she seemed to be drowning in the open air. Her features were sharp but fine, with the air of old-world nobility, or the kinds of women who know they are trouble, and enjoy it.

“Where do you think, Reaper?” the woman asked her companion, her voice lightly touched with a French accent, though her English was good, “Left or right?”

She accompanied the question with an elegant, long-fingered hand tracing in the directions as she spoke. The man, if it was truly a man, was silent for a long moment. Then he tipped his head to the right in a shallow nod.

“Right,” he said simply. The woman nodded her agreement.

“Take your charming companions down that way. I will spin my web up there.”

She gestured to an old guard-tower, long since abandoned, that rose up above the old facility like the bones of a hand reaching for the sky. Reaper looked at her, tilting his head in what would have been a frown, had he had a face. She waved away his unspoken objections with a negligent gesture.

“Because, Reaper, our delightful opponents are not stupid. There are plenty of ways out of here above-ground. If they don’t want to fight you, they won’t.”

“But you’ll see them.” It was not a question, but the woman nodded anyway.

“But I’ll see them.”

The man nodded again, and made swift hand gestures towards the waiting soldiers. They dispersed, taking the right hand pathway deeper into the facility. He took two steps to join them, then turned over one shoulder.

“You really think she’ll come this way, Widowmaker?” he asked.

“Woman’s intuition,” she replied easily, “You handle the brute work, and I’ll take overwatch up on the tower. No pun intended.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied, and drifted away, his feet never quite seeming to touch the ground.

 

Widowmaker smiled and turned back to the tower. Let the grunts do the marching- she traveled in style.

A flick of her wrist deployed a grapnel that shot unerringly up towards the edge of the tower, where a lapsed section of twisted guardrail allowed it to gain purchase. Another motion of her wrist sent her soaring up to meet it, her feet catching the edge of the guardrail a moment before her hands, and turning the jump into a graceful vault. She landed neatly atop the guard-tower’s platform, and looked around appraisingly. A good seat, or at least as good as could be found in this ruined monument to Overwatch’s former glory.

The platform was maybe twelve by twelve feet square, and made of a smooth metal- uncomfortable to be sure, but unlikely to give way or to spoil her aim with unexpected motion. She slipped first to her knees, and then into a prone position, bringing her rifle up to her shoulder. She fussed over the firing position, sweeping grains of sand and any uneven bumps away until the surface was so flat it inspired neither shake nor wobble through her sights. Then she began to range in, using the different buildings as sighting points.

That little building, a storage room or something similar, was her hundred meter mark. Perhaps one-hundred two. The abandoned vehicle on the ramp deeper into the facility was her hundred-fifty mark. It was unlikely she’d need to shoot further than that given the number and style of her opposition, but it paid to be prepared. Overwatch agents were unlikely people after all. A quick mental calculation pegged an opposing guard-tower as a three-hundred fifty mark. Though perhaps it was more like three-hundred and-

 

“Whatcha looking at, love?” asked a cheery cockney voice from less than a foot behind her.

She froze, going completely still. She didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, didn’t vacillate- she froze, like a statue, like ice, like a corpse. Her breathing ceased, her shoulders tensed, and her already glacial heartrate slowed to near cessation. She could turn and shoot, but those were bad odds. She could detonate the gas bomb attached to her hip, but that would envelop her in the gas as well, which made it a bad plan. Or she could take her hands off her precious rifle, wait for her moment, and talk it out with Tracer until she dropped her guard. She hadn’t survived this long by betting on the long odds.

 

Widowmaker let out a long suffering sigh, and relaxed. She dropped her hands from her rifle, leaving it sitting in its firing position, and flourished them dramatically in an imitation of surrender.  

“You ‘ave my attention,” she said, “And my compliments, for getting up here unnoticed.”

“Clever girl, that’s me,” Tracer said, her accent giving her away faster than any visual identification, “Got you cold, I’m afraid.”

“So, what follows, little girl?” Widowmaker said, affecting an air of nonchalance, “Do you think you can shoot before I tell Talon that you’re here?”

“Mmm I dunno love,” Tracer mused, “But either way, you’d be a terrible mess. And whaddaya mean little girl? I ain’t that little!”

“Little enough, chérie,” she said, chuckling, “Nothing  _to_  you. Probably why I’ve never ‘it you yet.” Tracer huffed out a breath of laughter despite herself.

“Just because I don’t ‘ave… _assets_ like yours,” Tracer said, a teasing hand slapping down onto Widowmaker’s generous, vinyl-coated bottom, “Doesn’t mean I’m little!”

Widowmaker let out a little gasp of surprise, and half turned to look back at the slender woman. The cold press of one of Tracer’s pistols corrected that motion, the gentle pressure guiding her gaze back to her scope.

“Now, now love, let’s not ruin the mood. S’long as you behave, we can chat a while longer, savvy?”

“Hmph,” Widowmaker huffed, trying to ignore the feeling of Tracer’s hand, which had not left her backside, and instead was idly sitting on what it had so gleefully spanked moments before, “It seems chatting is not the only thing you had in mind, chérie,”

“Oh I  _do_ beg ya pardon. I’ve watched your arse toddle off and escape from me a few too many times now,” said Tracer, with more than a little sarcasm, “I just want to keep my eye on it!”

“Did your parents ever explain the difference between  _looking_ and  _touching,_ chérie?” Widowmaker asked, her tone wry, “I believe only one of them uses your hands.”

“They might ‘ave mentioned it, yeah,” Tracer said dismissively, giving her bottom another firm squeeze, more out of malice than for her own enjoyment, “Scatterbrain Jane, that’s me.”

Widowmaker chuckled, and shook her head slightly.

 

“Jane is such a terrible fit for you,  _Lena,_ ” she purred, “For that matter, I’ve never been fond of  _‘Tracer’_ either. You have such a lovely na-”

“How the bloody hell do you know my name?” Tracer hissed, her gun digging into the side of Widowmaker’s head. She just laughed, a dark little chuckle that made Tracer’s hair stand on end.

“It wasn’t ‘ard, chérie,” she purred, “A little research, a little light reading. Some of the old Overwatch facilities weren’t scrubbed as ‘ard as they should ‘ave been.”

The pistol dug painfully into the side of her head as the willowy form of Tracer sank down on top of her, a light and almost pleasant pressure across her hips that made her shiver slightly.

“Have you told Talon?” asked Tracer, and her voice was cool and almost flat in its anger, no trace of her cheery English accent. Widowmaker chuckled again, and rolled her eyes, though the latter motion would be invisible to the girl atop her.

“You know,” she mused, “I can’t answer that. I say ‘yes’, and you get  _furieuse_ and shoot me, or I say ‘no’, and you shoot me to keep your secret.”

Tracer growled and ground the barrel of her gun back and forth across Widowmaker’s temple.

“Well, love,” she hissed, “I’m already bloody  _furieuse,_ so unless you give me an answer-”

“No.”

There was a long silence, a gaping void in the conversation that seemed to stretch away for hours.

Tracer’s hand wavered, and the pressure loosened. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

“No, I didn’t tell Talon,” Widowmaker said, before she could ask, “Do you know, I’m not even sure why? I should ‘ave. I was going to. And then I just…didn’t.”

Tracer’s gun fell away from her temple, though Widowmaker could almost feel it, still aimed down at her body. Tracer shifted atop her, and Widowmaker shifted in turn, wriggling into a more comfortable position. The fact that it pressed her backside to Tracer’s hips was a mere coincidence. The gulp Tracer made in response was not.

“Thank you,” she said finally, “I…I appreciate it.”

“ _De rien, chérie,_ ” came the soft, almost whispered reply, “Think nothing of it.”

 

“Widowmaker,” came a flat, rough voice, layered with a strange echo to it, as if it were coming from a great distance, “Do you have any movement yet? Rearguard said he saw motion towards the tower at rooftop height.”

The two of them froze, motionless, the rough, ghostly voice of Reaper shifting the tension from strangely intimate to suddenly terrifying in the space of a second. Widowmaker raised her hands slightly, to show Tracer they were nowhere near her radio. Tracer bit her lip as she thought frantically. She’d hoped for more time than this, and this…anomaly in Widowmaker’s behavior was too…it warranted further investigation.

_So,_ she mused,  _Do I trust her? Or do I give her a slap and take off running?_

“Widowmaker? Respond,” came the voice again, more impatient this time. Widowmaker shifted infinitesimally, an indication that an answer was going to be necessary in the next few moments. Tracer nodded, then realized the Frenchwoman wouldn’t be able to see the gesture. She tapped her shoulder with the barrel of the pistol.

“Everything’s fine, love. I’m probably still inside after all,” she said softly. There was a long pause, and then the prone woman nodded, letting out another resigned sigh. Her fingers settled lightly onto the radio.

“It’s a ghost-town up here, Reaper. The  _petite_   _souris_  is still inside. Patience now,” she murmured into the device, her tone mild, reassuring. The pause that followed her words seemed to last another hour or two.

“Acknowledged. Don’t drop your guard.”

“ _D’accord._ ”

 

The click of the connection cutting off was echoed by a pair of suddenly released sighs, both of which devolved into quiet, chuckling laughter. Widowmaker shook her head softly, turning slightly to smile at Tracer over her left shoulder.

“Look at us, like a pair of children hiding from the teacher,” she chuckled breathlessly.

Tracer smiled back weakly, but upon seeing the woman’s face, her smile froze in place and slowly drained away. Widowmaker cocked her head, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

_No question. It’s really her._ Tracer’s thoughts raced through the sudden silence.  _It’s really her. I mean, I thought back at King’s Row she looked like... It’s really…really her._

“Chérie? What is the matter?” The question was asked in a quiet, concerned tone.

And it was asked by a woman whose face, though touched lightly by the hand of time, and chilled a pale blue by whatever had been done to her, was without a doubt Mademoiselle Lacroix- widow of Gérard Lacroix, Overwatch Agent and head of the division targeting Talon. Tracer stared at her, only dimly aware that her mouth was open, that she was gaping at her, that if she didn’t get control of herself and the situation in the next few seconds, Widowmaker would do what a cornered spider always did.

_Bite._

 

For her part, Widowmaker stared right back, one delicate eyebrow raised above a pair of eyes the color of sweet almonds. Tracer had seen the expression, or lack of it, in those eyes before, but now they were… _worried_? Concern, not calculation glittered behind those eyes and she made no move to escape, though Tracer’s aim had drifted down to the floor beside her.

“A-Amélie?” Tracer blurted, her tone horrified, her face ghastly. Widowmaker tilted her head further.

“ _Qui?_ ” she said, her face caught between amusement and confusion at the strange turn to their conversation, “Who is this  _Amélie_?”

“It’s…I mean, she’s…” Tracer stammered, “She’s  _you._  I mean,  _You’re_ you.”

“Well of course I’m me, chérie, ‘oo else would I be?”

“Amélie Lacroix,” Tracer said softly, her tone disbelieving, almost hysterical, “Gérard’s wife. We thought Talon had killed you when they got to him. We thought…”

Widowmaker shuddered, her eyes distant for a few moments. Finally, she shook her head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, chérie.”

“No, you-”

“ _I said I don’t know,”_  Widowmaker’s reply was as short and as sharp as a stiletto, “ _What you’re talking about._   _C’est n’importe quoi!”_

“No…you killed him.  _You_ killed him!” Tracer said, her eyes wide with realization, “They got to you! Amélie, they got to you, and they made you kill him!”

 

* * *

 

 

_The rain pattered rhythmically down onto the street outside, but in the Lacroix household it was but mere background noise. It covered the sound of her footsteps quite nicely as she made her way silently across the bedroom floor. The closet door whispered open, sliding to one side on greased rails. She parted a selection of men’s dress shirts with both hands, moving slowly enough that the sound would be masked by the rain and the storm. The tiny red LED of the hidden safe was the only light in the room- illuminating a ten-key keypad beside a handle. She tapped in the password with sure, swift strokes. Their wedding day, some ten years ago. She paused there, as the LED blinked green, her motions losing their fluid grace. Something seemed wrong- the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end, but she couldn’t think why. Almost without thinking, she turned the safe handle and eased the door open._

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Non…_ ” Widowmaker whispered, “ _Je l’ai pas fait!_ ”

“They made you kill him.” Tracer replied, oblivious to the fact those almond eyes no longer saw her, staring deep into the past, “They made you kill Gérard, and Mondatta, and the others. But we can help you! I can help you!”

 

* * *

 

 

_She stepped lightly across the wooden floor. She did not tiptoe. Resting too much weight on her toes would be more likely to shift the boards and cause an unfortunate creak. Her target was a light sleeper, and she could not afford to have him wake. It took her more than a minute to cross the ten feet from the closet to the bed, but she did so in perfect silence, her breathing slow and even, matching it with the rise and fall of her husband- of the target’s chest. She shook her head, as if warding away an annoying fly, or an intrusive thought. The target lay on his back, one hand on his muscled stomach, the other flat out across the bed. He looked so peaceful, so beautiful resting there that she paused to observe him for nearly another minute. She told herself that she was getting her timing right. She would have to be perfect. And if she was waiting, she wasn’t frozen. If she was planning, she wasn’t terrified that something was terribly wrong with this whole picture. If she-_

_The target rolled over in his sleep, grumbling out a little moan as he shifted to a more comfortable position. His loose arm reached out across the king-sized bed, finding only the cooling hollow where his wife had lain minutes before._

_“Mmph… Amélie?” he mumbled sleepily._

_She raised the gun in her shaking hands and took a step closer._

_She lined up her sights._

_In the quiet of the little house, the sound of the shot left her ears ringing._

_Her target-her husband-her target- never made a sound._

_And though her marriage bed was a bloodied mess of gore, it was a clean kill._

_She felt tears, hot and heavy, running down her cheeks._

_She screamed the kind of scream that has nothing to do with lungs, or air, or sound._

_She raised the gun in shaking hands and pressed it gently beneath the soft curve of her chin. She didn’t even flinch as the red hot tip burned into her skin._

_“G-Gérard…” she murmured, fighting for control of her very soul._

_A hammering sound broke her reverie. She jumped, the gun clattering from her hands to skitter across the floor._

_“Oi! ‘Allo!?” came a voice from downstairs, “Is everyone alright!? That sounded like a gunshot!”_

_Her gaze flicked from the gun, to the door, to the window. Not once did they come within ten feet of the bed, or the rapidly spreading pool of blood emanating from it._

_The shattering sound was just another quiet noise in the midst of the storm, and the tinkling of glass blended melodically with the rain as she hit the street in a roll and came up running. The hammering droplets wiped away the tears, wiped away the sorrow, wiped away the blood that had never come close to touching her but that nonetheless stained her skin. She sprinted down a side-street, running everywhere and nowhere as long as it led away from that terrible memory._

_Behind her, the gutters gurgled and splashed with the run-off remnants of the life of Amélie Lacroix._

 

* * *

 

 

“Amélie? Amélie!?” Tracer’s voice cut through the sound of the hammering rain.

Heedless, Widowmaker ran through the memory, her face a bloodless mask tinged cold and blue by her condition. Her mindless flight halted as Tracer’s firm hand slapped down onto her shoulder. Her reaction was as brutal as it was instinctive. Her elbow lashed out behind her, and connected with a meaty thud against Tracer’s cheek. It spun her away and Widowmaker pursued, throwing herself at Tracer and slamming her down onto her back hard enough to rattle the guard-tower’s frame.

Their legs tangled, kicking out wildly- a foot hit the butt of her rifle and sent it spinning down over the edge. Widowmaker seized the front of Tracer’s jacket in both hands and head-butted her, leaving her too stunned to call upon the power of her Chronal Accelerator. A backhanded blow sent one pistol spiraling over the edge of the railings, while her other hand seized Tracer’s at the wrist- fingers slamming hard into the nerve point there, shocking her hand into opening. The second pistol tumbled to the floor and was almost immediately knocked out of reach by a flailing arm.

“Amélie! Amélie, stop!” Tracer gasped, managing to deflect a pair of punches aimed at the delicate bones of her throat. Widowmaker looked around frantically, but before she could make a grab at it, Tracer lifted one long leg and slammed her heel down on the abandoned radio, shattering its plastic casing and sending little black fragments scattering everywhere. Widowmaker tried to disengage, but Tracer’s legs locked around her waist in a shockingly intimate hold, and her next few punches met only empty air or Tracer’s deflecting blocks.

Both of them saw the moment Widowmaker decided to scream- to call out for help. She was an assassin, and extremely skilled at her job, but her specialty was death from a distance, whereas Tracer was in her preferred range in such close confinement. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, and Tracer’s fist stole the breath from her lungs with a sudden, sharp jab to her solar plexus. All that came out was a retching gasp, and though she retaliated with a fierce cross that rattled Tracer’s teeth, she stayed clinging to her. Tracer swung her hips slightly, and used the momentum to half climb the woman grappling atop her- one hand grabbing the collar of her cat suit and the other arm slamming its hand down over Widowmaker’s mouth, muffling her next attempt to scream.

“Amélie, listen to me! Amélie, it’s not your fault! It wasn’t your fault, I swear! They brainwashed you!” Tracer’s voice was desperate, almost a sob as she muffled her opponent’s screaming, twisting her body to take Widowmaker’s wild punches against her ribs and the metal edges of the Accelerator harness, “It could have happened to any of us!”

The next scream was comprehensible from beneath Tracer’s fingers.

“ _But it ‘appened to me!!”_ Amélie shouted, her voice a wild, hoarse alto, thrashing so wildly that it was all Tracer could do to stay attached to her. 

“It doesn’t make you theirs!” Tracer growled, her grip slipping, “It doesn’t make you a monster! It doesn’t make you a killer!”

Widowmaker slammed a fist into her side and she gasped, breaking from her diatribe, her fingers slipping from the woman’s mouth. On pure instinct, she raised a hand to block the punch she knew was coming, and reached out with her other hand behind her, in the direction she saw her second pistol fall. Luck was on her side, and her fingers closed around the slender barrel. She seized it in a white-knuckled grip and slammed the butt of the pistol into Widowmaker’s kidney just as she thrust with all the power of her legs and hips. The motion rolled the grapple first onto its side and then into a reversal- Widowmaker gasping and stunned on her back with Tracer straddling her hips. She spun the pistol, letting it hang in the air for a quarter turn, before snatching it up and pressing it down hard against Widowmaker’s neck.

Everything went still again, except for the gasping motion of Tracer’s chest, and the smaller, softer motion of Widowmaker’s even breathing. The assassin wasn’t even breathing heavily, though her face was twisted in pain and regret.

 

“Amélie…” said Tracer, making the woman look up at her. Her eyes were otherworldly- at once both achingly far away and shockingly close, fixing her with a stare so intense that it felt like a physical force. Tracer flinched, and looked away. The thing that dwelt in those eyes wasn’t inhuman. It was a human- but a human pushed to the very limits of pain, of morality, of  _sanity._  

Widowmaker licked her lips, the lower of which was bleeding very slightly.

“Do it, Lena,” she said, in a small, hopeless voice that nonetheless held the power and the venom of the Widowmaker, “Finish it,  _s’il vous plait_?”

“Amélie?” Tracer asked, barely daring to speak, “Is that you?”

“It’s me. It’s always been me,” she said, her voice funereal in tone, “I don’t ‘ave a split personality, chérie. I don’t ‘ave one personality, let alone two. The only difference is how much I remember.”  
“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t ‘ave to, it’s the truth,” Widowmaker coughed, struggling to catch her breath. She swallowed, the motion shifting the barrel of the gun pressed to her throat, “Lena, I need you to kill me. Do you understand?”

“I can’t do that, Amélie, you know that.”

“Do it. I died a long time ago, chérie. I died the night they made me kill Gérard. Finish it.”

“I can’t.” Tracer shook her head firmly, lessening the pressure of the gun against her neck, “But I can get you to people who can help. People who-”

“ _Non_ ,” Widowmaker’s voice was a cool, quiet wall against Tracer’s frantic optimism, “No one else can help me Lena Oxton. Only you. And only with that.” She nodded towards the pistol tucked under her chin.

“I won’t kill you, Amélie. I  _can’t_ kill you. Not knowing who you are, what you’ve been through,” said Tracer, her voice steady now, confident. Widowmaker almost snarled her next words.

“Why!?” she growled. Tracer looked down at her for a long moment, and then sighed.

“Because we’re Overwatch. We help people. That’s what we do.”

 

Widowmaker stared at her in disbelief for a pair of heartbeats. Then she let out a low, quiet chuckle.

“Foolish. You foolish, foolish girl. You know that sooner or later, I’m going to try and kill you?”

“I know.” Tracer’s voice was soft, but it held no illusions. The gun stayed where it was, nestled against her carotid artery, as she leaned closer, “You’re you. And I’m me. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still one of us, deep down.”

“One of what? An Overwatch agent? One of those retired old relics banned by the government and ‘ated by the people?” Widowmaker asked, her tone disdainful.

“A human being,” Tracer interrupted, cutting her off in mid flow, “A woman. Not just a killer. Not just a monster.”

She was close now, close enough that she could feel the soft heat of their mingled breaths as they argued. Close enough that Widowmaker’s eyes filled her vision, but this time, she didn’t look away. Widowmaker hesitated, shaking her head as if trying to deny it.

“Not just a Widowmaker, And not a corpse,” Tracer continued, her free hand coming up to run through the base of her captive’s hair, curling into a slow fist there and drawing a gasp that stuck in the woman’s throat. Lena looked down at her with something very human, very vulnerable in her eyes. But not pity.

“Amélie Lacroix,” she whispered softly, “You. Are.  _Alive._ ”

And then she closed the last few inches between them, and lowered her mouth to hers.

 

The meeting of their mouths was slow, and stiff, and clumsy. It would win no Oscars, set no hearts ablaze. But no one had kissed Amélie in years. And no one had  _ever_ kissed the Widowmaker.

For a moment, there was confusion, hesitation, and then finally realization. Lena’s mouth moved softly on hers- offering, not taking, and it was the sweetest, warmest thing that Amélie had ever tasted.

Realization weathered the sudden storm of emotions that flooded through her for almost ten seconds, until pleasure made itself known in the pit of her stomach, blossoming like a flower of fire and spreading out languidly into each one of her limbs. Acceptance followed pleasure, and she tilted her head slightly, letting Lena kiss her, softening the dumbstruck stiffness of her lips so that they could mold against her captor’s.

Soft, wet kissing sounds reached her ears, as unfamiliar to her as a foreign language, and her head began to reel with new sensation. Memories of a man’s mouth rose like a specter from her memories, but faded quickly. This was nothing like the memory- no memory could contain this much  _life_ within its borders. She gasped into Lena’s mouth and kissed her back, marveling at the softness of her lips, her hands coming up to rest against her captor’s muscular thighs, one hand sliding up to the curve of her hips.

She became aware of her heartbeat thrumming in her chest, and she gasped once more. This…this was how she felt after a kill. Only after a kill. Alive. She was  _Alive._ In Lena’s arms, she was alive once more. As if sensing the realization, Lena’s mouth broke from hers, teeth nipping at the swelling of her lower lip.

Lena’s face reentered her vision as she opened her eyes once again, though she couldn’t recall closing them. Lena was panting slightly, and her lips- _what full lips she had, how had she never noticed that before?_ Her lips were swollen from the exchange of kisses, and her usually pale cheeks were flushed a pleasing pink. Her eyes were half wide open, half sensually lidded, and she seemed caught between utter satisfaction and utter shock at her own daring.

Lena raised a hand to her lips, as if in wonder, and cleared her throat.

“S-So…” she began.

“Yes,” Amélie said, her mouth curling into a wicked smile, “Oh yes.”

“Yes?” Lena asked, gulping, “Yes what?”

“I am  _Alive,_ ” came the reply, in a guttural alto that made Lena’s blush darken another shade.

 

Amélie reached up, one hand digging into her captor’s hip while the other grabbed a fistful of her glossy brown hair, making her yelp. Then she pulled the girl’s mouth back down to her own, stealing the initiative and control of the kiss. Her mouth was clumsy at first, but she was naturally graceful and a quick learner- besides, whatever she lacked in technique she made up for in enthusiasm. It was her mouth that parted first, thrusting her tongue energetically between Lena’s lips, provoking a muffled squeak followed by immediate retaliation.

Lena’s pistol tumbled to the floor unheeded, and soon the pair’s tongues were locked in a subtle struggle, twisting and flicking and sliding sensually against one another within the heated lip lock. Not helping Lena’s faltering composure was the way Amélie was so eager to shift their positions to one more instinctively suited for their current…activities. Now her hips straddled just one of Amélie’s thighs, allowing that muscular leg to press up between her own, where it would take only the subtle motions of her hips to grind herself so easily against it. Likewise, Amélie had one of Lena’s toned thighs to grind against. Lena resisted for almost a minute before giving in to the lust rising in her stomach. Amélie didn’t resist at all, and her hips began to rock and grind in seductive curves almost immediately, adding a series of muffled gasps to her side of the desperate kiss.

This was a lot further than Lena had intended to take matters. She’d had plenty of time to deal with her guilty attraction to Widowmaker before. It had been easier, before she’d known who the woman was. Evil femme fatale bad girls were  _supposed_ to be hot. It came with the latex catsuits and the French accents. Evil femme fatale were not supposed to be brainwashed widows of former allies. Evil femme fatale were not supposed to beg to be killed with sorrowful, empty eyes. The kiss had happened before she’d even realized she was doing it, but it made perfect sense to her. She needed to show this woman, this gorgeous, strong, vulnerable woman that she was still human. Still  _Alive._

_And besides,_ she added mentally,  _you really wanted to bloody kiss her, you idiot._

Amélie let out a moan into her mouth, and scattered any thoughts or regrets she was currently mulling over. She groaned out an answering sound moments later as her hips jerked forwards, forcing her to rest her empty hand on Amélie’s shoulder, clinging to her as they clashed their mouths together. Their hips now moved in time, finding a rhythm that quickly left both of them breathless, their skintight clothing finally proving useful for something- the thin material doing little to nothing to muffle or contain the urgent pleasure of their rocking hips.

Lena whined out a weak little moan as she felt the slick heat between her thighs, her clit like a stiff little nub that she had no choice but the grind harder and faster against the soft, semi-yielding muscle of Amélie’s gorgeous thighs. A little shuddering, constricting tension ran through her, forcing her back to arch, and she realized with a start that she was humiliatingly close to an orgasm of epic proportions. She had no idea how long it had been since their first kiss. Time was now an irrelevance on a merely personal level, though she suspected her life might well be divided into B.K. and A.K. (Before Kiss and After Kiss) from this point on.

 

It was the pressure in her lungs, not the pressure in her hips, that forced her to break the kiss and she found herself panting and breathless, resting her forehead against Amélie’s as they rocked together rhythmically. Amélie looked up at her, and those almond eyes were so alight with life and desire that Lena couldn’t help but laugh for the sheer joy of it. Amélie chuckled too, and her hands slid down and around to grab two firm handfuls of Lena’s buttocks, squeezing and pulling firmly, urging her to rock her hips faster, harder down against her thigh, perhaps sensing her nearness, or the desperation in her moans. Lena let out another gasping cry, tilting her head and pressing her face into her partner’s neck to muffle herself slightly.

“Amélie, oh bloody hell, I’m- I’m close!” she gasped between fervent kisses of her new lover’s neck, tasting the smoothness of her skin and some kind of scented body wash that was at the same time fruity and intoxicating. Amélie just chuckled and urged her riding onwards, nuzzling against her as she did so.

“That’s it, chérie, give it up for me, that’s a good girl,” she purred, half teasing, half pleading, “Please, Lena. I want to feel you come. I want to make you feel good.”

She couldn’t help herself. In the face of that naked desire, that pleading need for connection with another human being, another woman- the need to make someone else feel good, to feel loved, to feel human, to feel alive. She wouldn’t- no, she  _couldn’t_  ever say no to that. Not ever.

Lena came with a muffled gasp- “Oh g-god!” she cried, and then her whole body went stiff, her back arching, her hips rocking violently in sudden, shuddering thrusts as she ground out a truly immense climax against her lover’s thigh. Amélie kept one hand on her backside, but slid the other up to the center of Lena’s back, pulling her close and capturing her against her own body, which was rocking almost as violently, holding her there in an inescapable embrace as waves of furious pleasure beat at Lena’s senses, washing away her thoughts in a tide of slick heat.

Half way through her release, Amélie found an angle that provided such delicious friction that she toppled over the edge almost before she knew what was happening. She bit down on Lena’s neck and wailed as her first climax in living memory swept through her. It started like fireworks in her hips, an explosion of utter release, then through some kind of alchemy it transmuted into a sensual heat that rose from her center to encompass every part of her body, rippling waves of pleasure sending her toppling back down onto her side, with Lena tangled around her.

 

All good things come to an end. When Amélie came back to herself, she was lying awkwardly next to, around, and on top of Lena, who was breathing hard and fast in little urgent pants against her neck. Her own breathing was slower, but considering her improved respiration and circulation, she was still more worked up than she’d ever been before. She shut her eyes and focused on reducing her heart-rate. She was quickly distracted by a soft kiss to the side of her neck, forcing her to lean back and let out a little gasp.

She opened her eyes to find Lena’s face only inches away. Her former/current/suspended enemy’s face was flushed with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment, and her eyes were caught between hope and panic, which seemed to be fighting a quiet war for dominance in the background. Lena cleared her throat awkwardly, and adjusted her hands to slightly more professional areas of Amélie’s anatomy. Such as was possible given their intimate locale.

“I…uhh-” she broke off, “I’m sorry.” Those hadn’t been the words Amélie was expecting.

“You’re sorry?” she asked, somewhat acidly. Lena coughed and her blush deepened a little.

“I mean, I didn’t exactly…ask you for a kiss or anything,” Lena mumbled, “I hope I didn’t…push too much.”

At this, Amélie let out a ringing laugh that lowered to a throaty chuckle, filled with such life that Lena couldn’t help but grin.

“Ah, chérie, only an Englishwoman could apologize for not kissing me more politely,” she teased, “And rest assured, though surprised, I was entirely consenting.”

“Ah, okay. Good,” Lena said lamely, “I thought so, but, y’know…”

“If you ever need to guess,” Amélie said, in a faux-aside, “The frantic humping is a big giveaway.”

Lena’s face went scarlet, and she slapped the woman lightly on the arm.

“You cheeky bitch!” she squealed through her blush, though it was clear from the laughter in her voice that she didn’t mean a word of it.

Amélie chuckled again, then trailed off. In the fading afterglow, the truth of the situation was starting to sink in, and it was cooling her mood at a rate of knots. Lena seemed to be coming to the same realization too, her blush fading as she ran an idle thumb across the woman’s collarbone, drawing a slight shiver from her.

“So…time for the ‘what now’ talk?” Lena said, unable once again to meet her lover’s eye.

“I think so,” Amélie nodded in agreement.

 

“Widowmaker!” called that ghostly, haunting voice from before, “Check in! Your radio went dead!”

Amélie’s eyes went wide and she raised a finger to her lips. Lena stared back, her flushed face suddenly pale. Suddenly another voice spoke up, this time a more human sounding male.

“Sir, we’ve got weapons here!” it said, “Widowmaker’s rifle…and a pistol.”

Lena’s eyes went wide, and she looked around the platform wildly. No matter how hard she looked however, she still came up with a pistol count of one.

“Let me see,” said the rougher, stranger voice- and when it spoke again, its edges were as hard and as cold as ice, “Tracer!” he said, and the venom in his voice sent a chill up Lena’s spine, “Deploy! Eyes up and watching! I’m going up there.”

Even as he was still speaking, Amélie was pushing Lena away from her, untangling their limbs and rolling to a kneeling position. Lena turned to face her, kneeling as well, her pistol in her hand but aimed to the ground, unwilling to assume that what they had was merely a truce. Amélie looked at her- really looked at her, as if trying to memorize her face.

Then she looked away.

“Go, chérie,” she said simply, “I won’t stop you.”

“Come with me,” Lena demanded, swallowing roughly to hide the taste of bile rising in her throat.

“I can’t do that, chérie,” Amélie sighed, “We’d never get away.  _You’d_ never get away with me in tow.”

“I’ll find a way,” she countered, knowing that Amélie was right, and hating it, “You can’t stay here, he’ll kill you!”

“ _Non, ma_ chérie _,_ ” said Amélie, “I tried to capture you, but you got the drop on me and escaped.”

“No way,” Lena shook her head, “I said I’d help you. I meant it.”

“You have helped me,  _chérie_ ,” Amélie said with a small, achingly sad smile. She took a shuffling step forwards on her knees, and ran her fingertips down her lover’s cheek.

“Not nearly enough. Look, what we shared-”

“What we shared, Lena, was a miracle,” Amélie said softly, but there was steel behind her voice, “And I will always be grateful to you. But I think our time is coming to an end.”

“No,” Lena said firmly, shaking her head, “Our time is just beginning, Amélie.”

“Stubborn English girl!” growled Amélie.

She drew in a sharp breath as a dark fog swirled into existence at the top of the ladder, rising up from the base of the platform in a vaguely humanoid shape.

“We’re out of time,  _ma chérie_.” Amélie’s voice was fierce, and sad, and angry all at once.

Lena’s heart leapt as she realized, somewhat belatedly, that the encounter had been more than a simple reawakening of senses and memories for the Frenchwoman.

 

The kiss that she pulled Amélie into in those last moments was a sharp crystallization of the little time they had spent together. There was anger, and calculation. There was resignation and acceptance. There was pleasure and need and passion. There was an inky little strand of hatred, of recrimination and a past so dark that it couldn’t help but be felt in some way. But somewhere in the midst of that urgent, desperate kiss, there was a shining strand of something that Lena had never felt before, and that Amélie recognized without remembrance. Neither of them dared speak its name, but they both felt its presence beating in sync beneath their breasts.

The parting of that kiss was the hardest thing Lena had ever done. She looked at Amélie Lacroix, the Widowmaker, with tearful eyes, hardly able to speak.

“I’ll find you again,” she promised, managing a weak smile, “Remember- time’s on my side.”

Amélie huffed out a breathless little laugh, feeling a tear stain her cheek for the first time in years.

Lena looked at her as she stood, stepping back to the platform’s edge. Amélie blew her a kiss.

 

“ _Adieu, chérie.”_

 

Reaper’s body swirled into being within the darkness of the mist.

In one swift motion, Lena stepped nimbly forwards, swinging past Amélie and pressing one hand to her heart. She winked, and pushed off with that hand, blinking backwards in a blur of blue just as Reaper’s arm came up, gun already tracking her. Another blink sent her ten feet sideways and onto the roof of a nearby building. Amélie stood where she was, pretending not to notice that she was fouling Reaper’s shot by doing so. He growled in frustration as his men opened fire wildly, unable to come close to hitting the retreating Tracer.

Instead of pursuing, he whirled to face Amélie, who had already returned her face to the blank, amused mask she so often wore. With Tracer gone, it was too easy to let Amélie slip away again, back beneath the surface so that she could be Widowmaker again. But Amélie would not lie so easy now.

“What the hell happened, Widowmaker!?” Reaper snarled, pacing the platform like a caged beast.

“She got the drop on me just a little while ago,” Widowmaker said, sidestepping the actual lie, “We 'ad a little mêlée and things got rough. I lost my rifle and ditched one of her irritating pistols, but she got the other one on me and tried to take me captive. Radio got broken in the brawl.”

She nodded towards the shattered remnants of the radio. Reaper nodded in turn, his mind elsewhere, already thinking of his retaliation towards Overwatch for this humiliating failure. He paused mid-stride and gave Widowmaker a piercing look from beneath his cowl.

“You look…different,” he said finally, as if he could see the mark that Lena had left on her soul.

Widowmaker hesitated, but Amélie purred, “I bought a new lipstick. I’m a little tired of these cold colors.”

Reaper shook his head in frustration.

“We have better things to do. Let’s get after her while we still have the light,” he looked over her injuries critically, “Are you good to go?” he asked, already turning to leave.

Amélie smiled at his turned back and made her slow, easy way towards the ladder.

“Never felt more alive, darling.”


	2. Cherchez la Femme

_Three months later_

_Barcelona, Spain_

 

A blaring, buzzing cacophony startled Tracer up out of her doze. She lay across her apartment’s couch, blinds shuttered against the heat of the day, her face illuminated only by the flickering light of the R.A.F. documentary she’d fallen asleep to. She looked around blearily for the source of the noise that had woken her. The remnants of her sandwich and a half empty bottle of beer provided no answers- neither did the Chronal Accelerator sitting atop her chest, which thrummed silently, free of any errors or warnings. Her eyes were just slipping closed again when her backside started buzzing violently. She leapt to her feet in a daze, slapping at her hips, imagining a wasp the size of a small bird before her sleep-addled mind caught the tinny, slightly muffled words of her ringtone emanating from her back pocket.

_A fatal attraction holding me fast –_

_How can I escape this irresistible grasp?_

She fumbled for the phone, her cheeks burning despite the fact that no one had witnessed her embarrassing panic. _Every time this bloody ringtone comes on,_ she swore, _I can’t help but think of her._

After what felt like hours, she managed to get the slender phone out of her pocket and into her hands. She didn’t recognize the number, so she greeted the line with silence as she opened the connection. Better safe than sorry after all. Silence was her only answer for a long five count, so she ventured a quiet greeting.

“Hello?”

The voice that answered her in a soft, lilting accent, could only be one woman.

“ _Plaça de la Sagrada Família_. A white van advertising a roofing company. There is a large bomb in the back set to go off at four p.m.,” said Amélie Lacroix, better known as the Widowmaker, in a quiet, businesslike voice.

“Amélie?” Tracer said, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest, “Amélie wait, don’t hang up!”

There was silence for a long moment. Tracer bit her lip. She had to ask. She _had_ to.

“Amélie, just come and talk to me. Where are you?”

Her only answer was a click as the line disconnected. She swore violently, and only just resisted the urge to throw her phone through the window. A little under three months moving across Spain- from Gibraltar to Madrid, from Madrid to Valencia, and now to Barcelona. Three months of constant travel, most of it at short notice to counter the efforts of Talon to hunt them down and crush the new Overwatch before it could assemble its full strength. Three months of fear and uncertainty. Torbjörn and some of the others were setting up a new base somewhere in Europe, not that she knew _where_ yet, and Talon was doing everything it could to make sure that they never made it there.

The main reason for their continued survival, aside from their own unique skill-sets and Winston’s inspired leadership, was Amélie. She hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with the traumatized Frenchwoman since they’d parted in Gibraltar, but she had been contacted four times now, each contact giving away crucial information- assassination attempts, raids, kidnappings. She never said anything else- not her name, not hello, nothing. Just a place, a time, a method, a warning. Just the necessary details.

That had hurt, just a little.

_Okay, it hurt a lot. More than a lot, damn it._

Tracer was sure that she, and a lot of other people, would be dead three or four times over if it hadn’t been for those phone-calls. She had spent what little free time she had tracking them down. Most originated from payphones in the local area at the time, and it had been…almost intoxicating, to be stood where Amélie must have stood, to see what she must have seen. At times she swore she could feel the woman’s presence there with her, like a guardian angel.

 _Bloody hell Lena, get over yourself,_ she thought as she straightened up out of her seat, _She’s got you all teary-eyed and obsessive. Face it, you’ve got it bad for her._

She stifled a yawn and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, unwilling to consider _that_ thought any longer than strictly necessary. She’d been enjoying a siesta like the locals, sheltering from the worst of the day’s heat, and she wasn’t looking forward to going out in what seemed like a sweltering example of Spanish summer. Her expression sobered as she caught sight of the clock by her mantelpiece. It read 3:04- she had a little less than an hour to get there, get rid of a bomb, and get out again. She ground her teeth. Four in the afternoon. That was a busy time; kids coming home from school, people returning from a late siesta, the first tourists venturing out into the slackening heat. The _Sagrada Família_ was a church that took up almost a city block, and the plaza around it was half market-courtyard and half gently wooded park. The perfect place to take your family. She swore under her breath again and shrugged her jacket on.

Talon might be after her, but their sightseeing choices left a lot to be desired.

 

* * *

 

It took her less than twenty minutes to make it to the Plaza, the blurring streak she made barely noticed as she dashed across rooftops and down side streets faster than any human could possibly run. She thought as she went, considering the likelihood that this time the phone call was a trap. She doubted it. Whatever else happened, whatever else _hadn’t_ happened- she and Amélie had shared something up there on that tower. She flushed briefly as she recalled the encounter.

_Something more than mutual, and exceedingly pleasurable orgasms, that is._

Even three months later, she still caught herself staring off into space, the taste of Widowmaker’s lips on hers consuming her waking thoughts. Even three months later, she still woke to half remembered dreams of rocking hips and a whispered French voice against her earlobe.

_Please, Lena. I want to feel you come. I want to make you feel good._

She shook her head. That was _not_ a mental image conducive to clear thinking.

She also tried to keep her thoughts away from the tear she had seen glittering in that normally expressionless face as Amélie had told her to go. That way lay madness, and a different kind of dream. She pushed those thoughts aside, the good and the bad, and increased her pace. She had a job to do, after all.

 

The plaza was worryingly busy as she arrived, slowing her sprint down to a more reasonable pace as the number of potential witnesses increased. She made sure to zip her jacket up over her chest harness, but even so someone was sure to recognize her soon. She just had to hope that they wanted an autograph and not clear line of fire. She darted through the crowds of tourists and natives selling everything from handmade rosaries to sizzling bowls of paella, her head on a swivel as she tried to remember Amélie’s description of the van. A white van for a roofing company, she’d said, but she couldn’t see a vehicle like that anywhere. She forced herself to stand still in the shadow of the vast church, and think things through. She had, as much as the idea was distasteful, to think like Talon.

_Alright, I’m an amoral, evil terrorist, and I want to set off a car bomb. Where would I bloody put it?_

She looked around slowly, trying to spot where the crowds were thickest.

 _I want the most casualties,_ she thought, her stomach twisting in disgust, _But I don’t want someone to investigate the van and blow my game early- no pun intended, so it can’t be illegally parked._

She narrowed her view to the parking areas, cutting out the wooded area which would be less heavily populated in any case.

_The church entrance. People stop by entrances coming and going, they make sure they have all their stuff, they look at maps, talk, decide where to go next. I’d put it right outside._

Her gaze slid around the rows of cars nearest to the church, and came up with a winner. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted a dirty white van, its side painted with the image of stacked roofing tiles and a name and phone number written in Spanish.

 _Gotcha,_ she thought with a certain grim satisfaction.

She walked towards the church casually, skirting the crowds as if she were another tourist. She snagged a map from a little stand, pressing a euro into the hand of the man working there.

“Gracias, senor,” she said, as the man smiled and babbled something. Her Spanish was awful, but she could just about remember to say please and thank you for things. She faked reading the map as she strolled past the van, noting that it was apparently empty. She darted left at the last possible moment, and paused at the rear of the vehicle, leaning against it as her fingers surreptitiously checked the door.

_Locked. Damn it._

Normally she’d just blow the lock off, but not only would that raise exactly the kind of panic she was worried about, she also didn’t want to go shooting at a van potentially full of high explosives on general principle, no matter how many times Winston told her that the stuff was ‘generally inert’.

 _I had a cat once that I’d describe as ‘generally inert’,_ she thought with a grim smile, _But you try shooting at ‘im and see what happens!_

Tracer growled under her breath as her fingers felt at the lock. A bobby pin would work wonders, if her hair wasn’t so thick that it ate them alive, and a bump key would be child’s play if she’d thought to acquire one at some point. She checked her phone. 3:25pm. Time for plan B.

It took her ten minutes to find a supermarket, and another five to find what she was looking for. She dropped a note she was pretty sure was too big down on the counter and ran off before the startled looking cashier could give her any change. She made it back to the van just as her clock showed 3:45pm. It took about two minutes to cover the driver’s side window with a double layer of thick black electrical tape, but once it was covered she was reasonably sure it would work. She looked around nonchalantly.

_Right, time to hope no one is looking and decides to call the Polizia. Or the Garda. Or whatever they’re called here._

Then she slammed her elbow into the center of the taped-up glass as hard as she could. It shattered with a muffled crack of impact, and fell in several large pieces into the van. She grinned and reached carefully through the now open window to unlock the door. She climbed in and over the glass and made her way into the back compartment of the van, closing the door behind her. Her grin disappeared as she dropped heavily onto her knees in the cramped storage compartment.

 _Oh bloody hell,_ she thought suddenly, _I forgot something important. Something very bloody important!_

She stared at the piled bricks of plastic explosives, glass jars of nails, and electronics topped by a digital clock face that had nothing but the current time on it.

_I have absolutely no bloody idea how to disarm a bomb!_

She sat there frozen for a long moment, and then pulled her phone out, her training pushing her startled mind into action.

_Right. Overwatch is back, is it? Let’s put that theory to the test!_

She dialed an old, old number, and hoped for the best.

On the fourth ring, there was a quiet click, and then a booming voice that made her flinch away from the speaker in sudden shock.

“Tracer!” exclaimed a vaguely Scandinavian voice practically radiating cheer, “Is that you, lass!?”

“Hey Torbjörn! Long time no see, mate! Winston give you my new number?”

“Yep! You should see the new base, Tracer, it’s a real beauty! We’ve got-”

“Look, as much as I’d love to talk about that, this is actually a professional call.”

“Oh is it now? Well it’s such a pleasure to hear your voice, I think I’ll overlook it this one time. So what can an old man like me do for you?”

“Ah,” she said, grinning as the old banter between them came back so easily, “Funny you should ask really! I'm lookin’ at a Talon bomb."

There was a significant pause. Tracer grinned wider, despite herself.

_Point to me!_

“What on earth are you doing that for, lass?” Torbjörn said, incredulously.

"Because it was that or keep me eyes shut, and that might make disarming it tricky," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"Oi now lass, no one likes a…what did you call it? A sarky bastard?” he said, his accent stretching the vowels to near incomprehensibility, “Describe it to me."

"Yeah that’s right. Not that I am one, mind you,” she said, giving the bomb a cautious glance, “Look, it's y'know…bomb shaped."

"Bomb shaped.” There were deserts less dry than Torbjörn’s reply. “You can’t do any better than that?"

"Well, it’s a big bundle of plastic explosives with a few things stuck in it. Three wires, some circuits and a digital timer."

"What's on the clock?"

"The current time. Amé - _my source_ said it was set for sixteen hundred sharp,” she said, only just managing to catch herself before blurting Amélie’s name, “A little less than fifteen minutes.” 

"Alright lass, alright. I can work with this. Grab the red wire-"

"They're all red Torbjörn,” she interrupted.

This time the pause lasted almost ten full seconds.

"What?" he asked, sounding as if he desperately wanted to have misheard her.

"I said they're all red,” Tracer repeated, her stomach sinking.

" _Jävlar!_ " Torbjörn swore violently. Tracer didn’t know any Swedish, but some words are unquestionably profanity. There was a clanging sound that sounded almost exactly like someone throwing a spanner at a wall.

"Tor? Are you there?" she asked, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“Yes, I’m here,” Torbjörn grumbled, “Look, if I were you, I’d throw the bloody bomb in a lake and run off.”

“I don’t have a lake, the bomb is about the size of me, and it’s inside a van,” she said, somewhat acidly, “Otherwise, thanks for the advice.”

“Alright, alright, look,” he said, his emotions kept tightly under control, “We’ll need to find out which of the wires is the control wire.”

“And that’s the one I cut?”

“No, that’s the one that blows you up when you cut it.”

“Oh. Alright then. How do I find it?” she asked, eyeing the wires speculatively.

“Well lass, welcome to the University of Torbjörn…”

 

The blinking clock-face read 3:59pm when Tracer slid a sharp piece of glass across the leftmost two wires, her face contorted into a hideous rictus. The wires parted easily and she almost cut herself on the glass as she dropped it. She opened one eye and looked down at the bomb, as if it were delaying the explosion solely to startle her.

“Lass?” Torbjörn’s voice on the other end of the phone had an undercurrent of tension to it.

“I cut the wires you said. It didn’t blow up.”

“Excellent! We’ll make an engineer of you yet!”

Tracer sighed and leaned back against the side of the van, closing her eyes.

“So it’s safe now?”

“Should be, yeah!”

Her eyes snapped open.

“ _Should be?_ ” she asked, her tone incredulous.

“Well with bombs, you can never quite be sure…”

“Torbjörn! When you said ‘defusal’ I thought you meant…y’know, stopping the bloody bomb from going off!”

“I did! It’s just that EOD is not an exact science! For some reason, terrorists don’t like it when their shiny toys don’t blow up,” Torbjörn’s voice was unaccountably jolly, “It gets them really-”

“Tor! Mind on the subject please! You’re telling me I could still get blown up even though I disarmed the bomb!?”

“Well, no. Not really.” Torbjörn’s voice was insufferably smug. Tracer glared at the phone.

“Why not?” she asked, through gritted teeth.

“Because your timer ran out three minutes ago,” came his jolly Swedish reply.

Tracer’s eyes went wide and snapped up to the clock-face atop the bomb, which did indeed read 4:02pm in blinking red lines.

“You…you…you utter arsehole!” she yelled, “You were just bloody messin’ with me!?”

“No! Nononono!” Torbjörn said quickly, “I was serious! But the thing is, lass, there was nothing else either of us could do! So I thought-”

“So you thought you’d distract me, so I wouldn’t be panicking when the bomb blew me to a billion pieces!?”

“I didn’t want you to panic and fiddle with something!” he explained, his voice significantly calmer than hers, “There’s nothing worse than a timer to make people’s heads stop working.”

Tracer slumped down against the side of the van and put her head in her hands. Weakly, she managed to say;

“Thanks for your help, Torbjörn. I’m going to go drink a bucket of Tequila and lie down now.”

“Anytime lass, anytime,” he rumbled affectionately, “Proud of you.”

She hung up and let out a long sigh.

“Why is everyone in Overwatch criminally insane?” she asked the bomb, somewhat ironically, as she unlocked the back of the van and slipped out into the street, carefully closing the door behind her. She walked unsteadily off in the direction of her apartment, deciding to take the scenic route while she called the police. She didn’t want Talon coming back for the bomb.

She was concentrating so hard on walking in a straight line, not to mention the atrocity that was her spoken Spanish, that she never noticed a man by the church entrance break from his tour group and begin to lope after her, his face hidden behind a tourist’s map.

 

* * *

 

 

Up above, far above the towering shadow of the Sagrada Familia, Widowmaker smiled down at Lena Oxton with the kind of face that would have had artists tearing their brushes out in sheer passion.

That was her stubborn English girl, alright- she’d found the van _and_ disarmed the bomb, all in record time. It had been a joy to watch her move, to watch her think, and to watch her work inside the van- with the help of her thermographic sensors anyway. She spent the next minute or so simply enjoying watching Tracer move. She’d watched her unsteady steps recover their usual grace, and now she was…well, ogling, she supposed.

 _She might be fully clothed, and I might be more than a little far away,_ she thought, _But darling Lena, I could watch you walk all day. Mon dieu._

Unwillingly, her scope drifted down from the utterly entrancing spectacle of the motion of Tracer’s hips and backside to rest over the back of the man following her. Her quiet little smile drained away.

 _Tracer, ‘urry up and spot the fly already,_ she thought, a quiet worry taking root in her head.

A chase that was not a chase began, down there in the street. Tracer was wandering, taking in the sights while she chattered on the phone, no doubt in horribly broken Spanish, and the man kept pace with her, slowly closing the distance between them. Widowmaker’s frown quickly became a scowl.

_Tracer- Lena, dearest…you ‘ave to get out of here. Talon is going to come looking for their bomb._

Tracer was definitely off her game. She stood under the shade of a tree, looking back towards the van, and through her scope Widowmaker saw her bite her lip, gnawing at it nervously as she listened. For his part, Tracer’s tail stopped beside a food-cart as if considering its wares. He was good, and that fact annoyed Widowmaker even more. Tracer turned her back as if to go, and then hesitated. The man split off from the food cart, pacing through the crowds of people now swarming all around the church and the plaza, his steps just a little too fast, a little too direct now. It was an effect only visible for someone at a high perch like Widowmaker’s, but the man’s progress through the crowd was that of a shark who had scented blood.

_Mon dieu, Lena! Get your head in the game! If you don’t pick up soon…_

She considered her options grimly. She couldn’t call Tracer, because that would not only reveal her presence, but interrupt her reporting of the bomb. Tracer knew her habits, and she’d pick up on this little nest in an instant. She could intervene, but that would cause a riot. Or she could observe, and hope to mitigate the damage. But that meant she would have to accept most of whatever happened. She ground her teeth together, her stomach twisted by an uncomfortable and entirely unfamiliar emotion.

_Lena, my stubborn chérie, look what you’ve done to me…_

Her heart in her throat, she watched the man draw something out of his bag. A little plastic block, held down at his side. A Taser? Her eyes widened. This was not what she was expecting. Talon would never send a single operative to-

Tracer’s eyes slid over the man, then shot back to him, going wide. She dropped her phone, but now the man was close, and he sprinted for her, attacking her in utter silence. Widowmaker saw his arm reel back, the Taser spinning from his grasp, and cheered inwardly, tracking the fight as best she could. Then the Talon agent went even further off script. He drew a gun. A short, ugly little semiautomatic.

Widowmaker’s eyes went wide, and she dropped her scope down to him immediately. She took a breath and held it, then blew it out as a woman carrying two rucksacks and a baby walked into her line of fire, oblivious to the scene behind her. Widowmaker swore under her breath and bit down on her lip so hard it drew blood, which dripped in slow, even drops in time to her still glacial heartrate. Behind the woman, Tracer was making the noble choice. Aware she was surrounded by a crowd, she went for the disarm instead of the disengage, no doubt imagining the Talon agent shooting into the crowd at her as she retreated and hitting god knows who. Widowmaker knew the agent would do it, and not give a damn who he hit as long as one of them was Tracer, but that didn’t mean she liked it. As far as she was concerned, she only cared about the survival of one of the people down there.

The sound of a gunshot split the air, and she saw Tracer reel backwards, eyes wide. She could only see the back of the oblivious woman as she turned to stare at the scuffle behind her, still blocking her shot.

_Move. Allez. Allezallezallezallezallez-_

Her finger tightened on the trigger regardless of the obscuration. Given the distance and the round she was using, her shot should penetrate through to its intended target.

She blinked, and the next thing she saw was Tracer’s face, as it had been in their first encounter, all the way back in London, questioning sorrow and anger twisted on her heartbreakingly lovely face.

_“Why!? Why would you do this!?”_

Her finger relaxed. She couldn’t take the shot. Not if it meant Lena’s hatred. Not if it meant breaking her heart again. Tracer entered her field of view once more, wrestling with the agent. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the blood staining one of her hips. Tracer’s face was set in furious, fearful anger, her teeth gritted against the pain, and she was still _shockingl_ y beautiful.

And then the woman with the baby realized what she saw, and what she had heard, and _screamed_. She stumbled back, her body caught between ‘run and hide’ and ‘duck and cover’, but all that mattered was that she moved.

And suddenly Widowmaker’s sights were laid right over the back of the Talon operative’s head.

 

_Je t'ai eu!_

 

She pulled the trigger and the man’s head popped like a grapefruit, splattering Tracer’s shocked face with gore. Less than a second later the booming echo of her rifle raised a crescendo of screams at the same time it bowed everyone in the plaza. People ran screaming for cover and others looked around frantically. Tracer stumbled back against her tree, one hand on her hip, her eyes scanning the high church windows for the hidden sniper. She had to know it was her, had to know who would be watching over her. Widowmaker ran her scope almost lovingly down Tracer’s body, her mouth curled into an ugly frown as she saw the blood seeping through the jumpsuit above her right hip.

The sound of screeching tires broke her reverie and she looked up from her scope, replacing narrow vision for wide. Two large cars, their plates identifying them as rental vehicles, came screeching around the corner in wild handbrake turns. One slid sideways and slammed into the northern exit to the Plaza, blocking it off, while the other did the same to the east. The vehicles were barely to a halt when the doors flew open, disgorging Talon agents. Widowmaker’s professional glance spotted both rifles and more Tasers. She cursed. Clearly she had only managed to intercept the first of two mission dossiers. The bombing had a contingency plan; the capture of whichever Overwatch agent was drawn out of hiding to foil it.

Tracer started shooting now, short little aimed bursts in both directions that forced the attackers into cover. She turned to the west, her steps unsteady, and blurred forwards just as Widowmaker had hoped. Her hopes died as the blur suddenly ceased, Tracer blinking ten feet forward and down into a messy roll as her leg buckled under her. The high, pained sound she made was audible to Widowmaker’s enhanced senses, and she swallowed roughly.

 _My love, I’m so sorry,_ she said inwardly, allowing herself to think the words she didn’t dare say, _I ‘ope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do._

She took a long, deep breath inward, and held it. She cleared her mind, cleared her thoughts, and cleared her soul. She closed her eyes tightly shut… and called up the programming. It knew what to do. She forgot Tracer, forgot Lena Oxton, forget herself. Instead, she remembered only the programming.

The face she wore when her eyes snapped open again bore no resemblance to Amélie Lacroix.

 

In complete silence she shouldered her rifle, and picked her targets.

There. The man crouching behind the lead car shouting into a radio. Strike Team Leader.

_Un._

She put a round through his head, and he slumped down the side of the car in a crimson streak of gore.

The man next to him looked down in shock, and opened his mouth to shout a warning.

_Deux._

A round through the neck stole his voice and his life from him.

A third agent was flanking Tracer to the east, looping around a bus-stop.

_Trois._

The round emptied his head like a melon, but now one of the strike team was gesturing wildly up towards her perch. She could hear the word _‘Sniper!’_ being shouted. On principle, and because he was out of cover, she shot him too.

_Quatre._

A trio of rounds smashed into the wall beside her, showering her with dust and masonry. She swung her weapon to the side and found the muzzle flash. Her first shot blew his weapon away, the second finished the job.

_Cinq et Six._

But now others were turning towards her. Tracer was reloading- she’d crawled behind a low wall and was firing single shots, able only to keep the Talon agents from advancing, unable to score hits of her own. Either her Accelerator had been hit, or the wound to her hip was stopping her from zipping around or aiming steadily. Either way, she was no longer able to defend herself. Pushing the programming back for a moment, she lowered her rifle to the masonry of the windowsill and fired, blowing up dust.

_Sept._

This was going to take some skill. She lifted the rifle, and as she did so, released the grapnel from her wrist mount. Its hooks anchored to the hole she had left, and she fired her rifle down at the cars one handed, sending shooters diving for cover.

_Huit, Neuf, Dix!_

The moment her rifle clicked empty, she jumped, leaping from the window and ejecting the magazine as she did so. Her spiraling descent was faster than she had anticipated, and the jolt as she ran out of line a mere ten feet above the ground almost threw the rifle from her hands. She cut the cord and dropped into a crouch behind a low wall, already slamming a new magazine home. The Talon agents were not idiots- they turned from Tracer, leaving one of their number to pin her down while they faced the real threat. They began to open up on her, bullets hammering through the vegetation and against the masonry she sheltered behind. She twisted round into a kneeling position and returned fire in bursts, her bullets shredding leaves and hedges, sending up sparks as they ricochet from the car.

 _This isn’t how you fight,_ the programming said in a quiet, disapproving voice, _Let them go for the woman. Then pick them off as they try to get away._

She ignored the little voice, and picked off another flanker. Talon was running out of men, anyway. She saw her chance and vaulted the wall, sprinting for cover, closing the distance with Tracer. She made it only a millisecond ahead of a pair of rounds that whizzed by with deafening cracks, the tell-tale of extremely close incoming fire. Her blind response, while loud and sustained, was more for appearance than effect. The second it was over, she ejected her magazine and ran. She was closing on Tracer now.

_Thirty feet._

_Twenty feet- Duck!_

The programming screamed at her, and she ducked as a flanking agent she hadn’t seem came around the same cover she was using. Her hands were moving through treacle, but her reload finished just as he saw her, and their rifles panned across each other like icebergs towards ships. For a long moment, there was just sound, and then the moment was past. She pulled herself up against the wall, panting. The Talon operative lay beside her, his head unrecognizable. She tried to shoulder her rifle again, already planning her next move, but her arm wouldn’t listen to her. She looked down and saw a spreading scarlet stain running through her left shoulder.

_Oh merde._

The programming tried to take over, but she pushed it away. It was hindering her now, not helping.

 _Run. Retreat. Let them take the girl. Get her back later if you must, but you have to withdraw,_ it said, cold logic and survival all it cared for, _Your death will accomplish nothing._

She hissed out a breath as the pain set in, dull and distant, as if coming from a long way away. She realized belatedly that she was going into shock. She managed to lift her rifle in one hand and prop it against the wall; from there she directed bursts at the remaining agents, who were gathering around the northern car. A hail of fire forced her to duck her head, but it was backed by the sound of an engine.

She grinned.

_Too much for you, boys?_

She felt, rather than heard, the car screech and rumble away and it was a long moment before she could catch her breath.

 _Tracer,_ she thought suddenly, _I have to get to Tracer._

She dragged herself along the waist high wall, scooting her backside across the floor, crawling with her good arm. She sank down at the corner, out of breath again. She looked behind her. She’d only moved about three feet.

 _This could take a while,_ she mused, _I’m just going to catch my breath._

Her vision swam, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. When they opened again, Tracer was kneeling down beside her, eyes wide.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, Amélie!? What the fuck happened to you!? Oh god, you’re hit!” Tracer’s voice was the mile-a-minute, adrenaline fueled babble of post-combat stress, and her fingers felt very warm as they brushed across her cheek. Widowmaker stared up at her, mustering a slow response.

“’Allo, chérie.” The words seemed to require absolutely one-hundred percent of her effort, “Nice to see you again.”

“Oh Jesus, oh bloody fucking Christ, that’s bad,” Tracer said, her face pale, her own injury ignored.

“Nngh, don’t worry,” Widowmaker grunted as Tracer jostled her, “It’s through and through. A nice clean shoulder ‘it.”

“She said, _as she bled to death_!” Tracer shot back, shrugging out of her jacket and pressing it firmly to the wound, “Get ya arms out the way, you bloody idiot!”

“Why chérie, I seem to ‘ave upset you…” she mumbled, trying to keep her arms still.

“No bloody shit, you, you- monumental moron! You got yourself shot!”

“You’re the one who got hit first, my stubborn English girl,” Widowmaker said weakly. Tracer scowled at her.

“I’m not _your_ bloody anything, Amélie,” she said firmly, and Widowmaker chuckled in response.

“Oh, _that’s_ why you’re upset.” This time Tracer chuckled too, though it was a pale imitation of her usual bright, cheerful laugh.

“Well y’know,” Tracer said, guiding Widowmaker’s good arm to the wadded up jacket, “Here hold this- you don’t call, you don’t text.” Widowmaker opened her mouth, only to find Tracer’s bloodstained finger waggling in front of her face, “And _no,_ those phone-calls do _not_ count before you even _try!_ ”

Tracer wrapped her arm around Widowmaker’s waist and gritted her teeth.

“Alright, on three. One, two-”

They rose about a foot, faltered, then rose again until the two women were leaning on one another in a more or less vertical orientation. Tracer half staggered, half dragged them towards the second car, which had been abandoned. As if there had been no pause in their conversation, Widowmaker spoke.

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble,” she said, the words a bare whisper. Tracer shot her an incredulous look.

“Fancy that, you not wanting to get me in trouble,” she said sarcastically, “Thank god you weren’t trying, otherwise someone might _have gotten shot!_ ”

Tracer flung the passenger door of the car open and dropped her into it with little fanfare, then made her slow, limping way around the front to the driver’s side. She dropped into it with a hiss of pain and reached down with one hand. A jingling sound made her smile weakly.

“Left the keys in it,” she grinned, and started the engine. As she pulled out and took the first side street away, she began to hear police cars in the background, racing towards the Plaza. For a while they were both silent, as Tracer focused the whole of her being on driving and not crashing into anything.

“Where are you taking me, chérie?” Widowmaker asked, maybe five minutes later. Her already pale blue face had gone paler still, until she resembled nothing so much as a drowned woman, as pallid as a corpse. Tracer winced as she looked her over.

“Somewhere safe,” she amended, “Probably safe. My apartment.”

“Taking me home, hmm?” Widowmaker teased, then coughed heavily, her body wracked with shudders, “Oh _merde,_ that hurts.”

“Just hang in there, alright?” Tracer said, reaching out to grip the woman’s shoulder tightly, “You’ll be alright.”

“Darling, you had better push me out at the next light.”

Tracer just stared at her, her mouth open.

“You bloody what!?”

“I said-“

“I heard you, I just can’t believe ya said something so bloody stupid!”

“They saw me, chérie,” Widowmaker whispered, her chest barely rising and falling at all now, “I didn’t get them all. By now Talon will know I betrayed them. I can’t put that on you.”

There was a stunned silence, broken only by the whisper of tires and the distant sound of sirens.

“Amélie Lacroix.” Tracer’s voice was smooth and restrained, though it was obvious anger was not far behind those words, “Shut your bloody mouth and concentrate on not bleeding to death instead of talking utter bollocks, alright?”

As if to underline her point, she flicked the door-locks shut.

“Now be quiet, I have to make a call.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Angela Ziegler speak-”

“Mercy, is that you!? I need you!” Tracer’s voice was hoarse, pained.

“Lena? Is that you? Are you hurt? What’s going on?” Mercy’s voice was the steady, worried calm of a professional medic as she answered the phone.

"My place, five minutes. I have a patient for you,” Tracer said urgently, “Rifle round to the shoulder, clean through. She's losing blood fast." Mercy’s response was immediate and without hesitation.

"I'm on my way. Keep pressure on the wound and try to keep her awake."

“Will do-" she yelped as Widowmaker leaned across the gap between the seats and prodded the bloody stain over her wound. The world span, and she narrowly avoided slamming into the back of the car in front of her.

“Lena? Lena are you okay?” Mercy’s voice had a strained edge to it now.

“Nngh okay, I’ve been hit as well,” she admitted, “Feels like a graze to my left hip. It’s not bleeding too badly.”

“Oh good god Lena, you’re going to give me a heart attack!” Mercy said matter-of-factly, “I’m on my way. I’ll bring back up.”

“No! No backup! No one else,” Tracer said, one step short of hysteria, “Don’t bring anyone else, and don’t tell anyone else what’s going on. Not even Overwatch.”

“Lena, what’s going on?” asked Mercy, clearly worried.

“I’ll tell you when we meet. Just…just trust me, okay?”

Mercy’s voice was a lot less certain and a lot more resigned when she spoke again.

“Of course, Lena.”

-click-

 

Tracer dropped her phone into her lap and concentrated on driving. Thank god Mercy had managed to link up with them after Gibraltar- Winston had demanded at least a group of three, given that a humanoid gorilla would attract a little too much attention trying to buy supplies. Even now he was forced to stay at an abandoned warehouse by the shore, not that it bothered him as long as Mercy kept up her weekly deliveries of peanut butter and bananas.

By the time she reached her street, the pain in her hip had grown from a dull ache to a sharp, throbbing agony. She pulled the car down a side street where it would hopefully be above notice, and dragged herself stiffly outside. Widowmaker was barely conscious as she was helped out of the car, but she clung grimly both to the jacket over her wound and to Tracer’s shoulder as she was helped up the steps of the apartment building.

Tracer leaned on the buzzer with her fist, all but yelling into the intercom.

“Mercy, it’s us, open up!”

The door clicked immediately, and Mercy swung it open, all but dragging the pair of them inside and slamming the door behind her. She was already mid-sentence when her eyes caught up with her mouth.

“Lena, what happ- _spinnst du oder was!?”_ she shrieked, staring at the tall, bloodied woman leaning on Tracer.

“I can explain!” Tracer said quickly, holding up her free hand to forestall judgement.

“You’d better! That’s _Widowmaker!_ ” Mercy’s normally placid, gently accented voice was a good half-octave higher than normal, and her face was twisted in a surprisingly vehement expression of disgust.

“Look, Talon came after me today. She’s the only reason I’m not in the boot of a bloody car with a black bag over my head, alright!?” Tracer growled as she rushed up the stairs, one hand helping Mercy support Widowmaker’s limping form and the other pressed to her hip, where the orange fabric of her pilot suit was stained a spreading crimson, “Nngh why the bloody hell did I get an apartment on the second floor!?”

“She helped you?” Mercy asked, taking most of Widowmaker’s weight despite her complaints.

“Look, it’s complicated. I don’t have time to explain right now. We have a-” she blushed slightly and looked away, “We have an understanding.”

“Lena…?” Mercy’s tone was disbelieving, shocked. Lena felt what blood she had left blossom in her cheeks.

“Not important right now!” she insisted as she fumbled with bloody hands for the key to her apartment proper, throwing it open and stumbling inside with Amélie. Mercy paused to grab the bag she’d clearly left beside the door and rushed in behind them, bustling around with a quiet efficiency.

“Pull the covers off your bed and lay them on the table, I’ll work on there,” Mercy said firmly, quickly tossing placemats and empty plates from the table into the sink of the little kitchenette in one corner of the spacious room. Behind her, Widowmaker leaned against the apartment door, Tracer’s jacket against her shoulder, her breathing slow and heavy. Mercy gave her an appraising look, up and down.

“See something you like?” Widowmaker asked acidly. Mercy shook her head.

“Nein,” she replied, her tone just as unfriendly, “Your face is blue. Artificially low circulation?”

Widowmaker nodded shallowly. Mercy considered that for a few moments before unzipping her bag and rummaging around in it. It was the size of a kitbag carried by athletes, and seemed to contain more equipment and pharmaceuticals than the average operating room. Through the straps of the bag was laced a slender staff decorated with the swirling snakes of the caduceus. She slid it out of the tangling straps and was inspecting it when Tracer returned, her arms full of thick, comfortable looking bedding, which she threw over the table. As she stalked past towards Widowmaker, Mercy caught her arm.

“What are you- ow!” she yelped, as with practiced ease Mercy swiped a swab across her wrist and jabbed her with a syringe, “What the hell is that!?”

“Just something to make you happy to be alive, Lena,” she said, dropping the syringe into a plastic sharps case before guiding her towards the couch, pushing a gauze pad into her hand as she did so, “Go sit down and keep pressure on it while I help your…friend.”

“I can’t believe you just…stabbed me,” Tracer grumbled, slumping down unsteadily onto the sofa, pressing the pad against her hip, her eyes already a little vague, “You can’t…go around stabbing people…like that…it’s bloody dangerous!”

“Yes, dear, just as you say,” Mercy said, clearly not listening, her attention on the lithe, dangerous looking form of the injured Widowmaker, “Get on the table,” she said brusquely.

“What, not going to help me up there?” Widowmaker teased, staggering in the vague direction of the table, her clumsy motions contrasting with her graceful appearance.

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Mercy replied, “Personally, I have no idea why I’m saving your life.”

“Me neither, darling, me neither.” Widowmaker climbed unsteadily onto the table, swearing under her breath as her left arm buckled. With a grunt of effort, she managed to flop down onto her back, panting. In a moment, Mercy was by her side, tugging away Tracer’s jacket, which dropped with a fluttering thump down onto the floor, and was promptly kicked aside by Mercy’s foot. She inspected the hole in Widowmaker’s shoulder, tutting at whatever it was she saw. Widowmaker, for her part, was staring at Tracer’s ceiling, which was an utterly boring beige color, and needed repainting for that matter. She doubted that the slender Brit was an interior design fan though- and the thought made her chuckle weakly. Mercy growled under her breath and prodded her shoulder, drawing a pained grunt.

“Hold still. You’ve got some shrapnel in here. I’m going to have to take it out before I close the hole,” she said, her tone brief, irritated. Widowmaker rolled her eyes. Moments later she felt the sharp pinch of an IV stab into her arm. She looked over to see Mercy extending the pole of an IV drip.

“Are you going to give me something for the pain sometime soon, or is the Hippocratic Oath sadly overrated?” she groused, which only earned her another prod to her wound.

“You can have a local, but that’s all I’m wasting on you,” Mercy said firmly, retrieving a syringe and giving her the injection with a little more gusto than was necessary.

“ _Merde!_ God damn it, woman, did I shoot someone you like?” Widowmaker asked, aggrieved.

“Shut your damned mouth, Talon.” Mercy’s voice was a low, hoarse whisper, “I’m helping you because Tracer is my friend, and my colleague, and because even heartless assassins who kill people they’ve never met before deserve first aid.”

“Wonderful,” Widowmaker sighed softly, closing her eyes, “Glad we cleared the air between us, darling.”

The whirring buzz of the Caduceus Staff split the air, and Widowmaker made a small, uncomfortable sound as her flesh began to tingle around her shoulder. Mercy leaned over her, tweezers poking around the injury with one hand and a sponge dabbing away excess blood with the other. The sensation from the staff was utterly alien and not slightly unnerving, as her flesh reknit with the aid of whatever nano-biology the glowing beam imparted.

“So, why did you help her?” Mercy asked, after a long moment of painful tugging with the tweezers. Widowmaker kept her eyes shut, and considered pretending to pass out, until Mercy poked her with the metal sharply, “Don’t pretend to be asleep, I’m monitoring your vitals. Why did you help Tracer?”

“Her name is Lena,” Widowmaker said softly, “Use it.”

“I know it is. I’m her friend.” Mercy’s voice was as cold as Widowmaker was beginning to feel.

“So am I,” she said simply. Mercy shook her head.

“There’s more to it than that. There’s something between the two of you.”

“We…” Widowmaker took a shallow breath. How could she possibly explain? Even when she said it to herself, it sounded crazy. Even now the programming told her to kill both of them and burn the apartment to the ground. It told her that this had to be an act, had to be deception. But deception couldn’t quicken her heartbeat like this, or make her want to crane her head to see if Lena was okay, despite her own injuries. She considered shrugging, but couldn’t muster the energy.

“We have an understanding,” she said finally, through teeth gritted against the pain.

“That’s what she said too,” Mercy muttered disgustedly. That won her a shadow of a smile from Widowmaker.

“I’m glad she thinks so.”

Mercy rolled her eyes and then leaned back, setting the staff aside.

“You’re done.”

Widowmaker looked down at her shoulder to find the flesh there knitted back together, a vaguely bullet shaped indentation in her flesh, the surrounding skin puffy and red. Aside from the IV taped to her wrist, she seemed entirely normal.

“There may be some scarring, and the blood vessels will need some time to restore circulation. I can’t predict side effects based on whatever has been done to your circulatory system, and frankly it’s not my problem anyway. Get off my table.”

Widowmaker shot her an acidic look as she clambered clumsily down off the table.

“Work on your bedside manner, _Herr Doktor_ ,” she growled, using the IV pole as a crutch, making her way over to Tracer where she lay on the couch. Heedless of Mercy’s glare boring into her back, she leaned over and planted a soft kiss on Tracer’s forehead, ruffling her hair affectionately. She all but felt Mercy’s eyebrows try and climb her face.

“Hey you…” Tracer mumbled weakly, opening her eyes to reveal pupils gone wide and soft with whatever painkillers she had been given, “Good as new?”

“ _Parfait, ma chérie, parfait_ ,” said Widowmaker as she helped Tracer to her feet and guided her back towards Mercy. As predicted, the blonde doctor was staring at her with eyes almost as wide as Tracer’s.

“You’re…you’re a dessert?” Tracer asked, her tone puzzled, her words sluggish. Widowmaker chuckled.

“Non, chérie, it means ‘perfect’.”

“Oh,” Tracer took a long time to process that thought. “Good.”

In short order, Tracer was eased up onto the tabletop, where she lay with wide eyes, her hands brushing happily back and forth over the soft covers to Widowmaker’s amusement, clearly enjoying the hell out of her painkillers. Mercy leaned over her, coincidentally shouldering Widowmaker aside.

“Let’s see what we have here,” she mumbled, picking up a pair of shears and cutting away the hip of Tracer’s jumpsuit. Widowmaker peered over her shoulder and tried not to look too lecherous. It was hard to be pleased about seeing bare skin though, if it was going to be as ruined and bloodstained as Tracer’s hip was revealed to be- the jumpsuit peeling back sticky with dried blood. Mercy made a disgusted sound.

“’It might have grazed me’ she says,” Mercy said, her tone dry, “She’s got a damned bullet in her hip.”

“Can you help her?” Widowmaker’s reply was just a little too fast to be unconcerned.

“Yes. Unlike you, my specialty is taking bullets _out_ of people.”

Widowmaker rolled her eyes and moved around the table, resting her hands either side of Tracer’s hip- one hand on her waist, the other her thigh. Mercy nodded approvingly, a pair of slender forceps in her hand.

“Hold her still, I’ll get the bullet out,” said Mercy, all business now as she dabbed away blood to get a better look at the injury, “And don’t knock your damned IV out. Okay, Lena? I need you to hold still, dear. You’re going to feel a tugging sensation, alright?”

“Alrighty!” came the cheerful response from further up the table. The sheer lack of concern in her voice forced a breath of laughter from both of them, but no more than that. Mercy leaned in closer, and worked with the forceps. She was a professional- two or three seconds of rooting around and one sudden tug of her arm, and she was holding the battered end of a slug between her forceps, her other hand already reaching for her staff. She dropped the round into a little disinfectant tray and used the sponge to mop up the blood as the apparent magic of the Caduceus staff knitted the injury together.

Widowmaker was shoved not gently away from the table with an order to ‘Sit down and shut up.’ For Lena’s sake, she decided to obey, and sank down onto the sofa with a groan. She amused herself in the meantime by examining the woman’s apartment. It was clearly a simple rental, not meant for long-term residence, but even so Lena had added a few personal touches of her own. A stack of movies containing at least a half-dozen fighter-pilot films, _Top Gun_ , three Bond movies and, to Amélie’s _utter_ delight, _La vie d'Adèle_ \- its plastic film still scattered over the coffee table, indicating a recent first watching. She grinned and leaned back in her seat, her eyes scanning around the room. Lena had added a half dozen mediocre paintings- local artists most likely, which was rustically charming in its own way, and the battered, second hand couch she was sitting on had probably not been an original fixture either.

Even with the dull ache in her shoulder, Widowmaker found herself smiling. This was all so…Lena. Comfortable, welcoming, energetic, and willing to see the best in everyone she met.

 _God, get a hold of yourself, Amélie,_ she warned, _You’re no good for her. You know that._

_And yet…_

_And yet, nothing._

Behind her, Mercy was in whispered conversation with Tracer, who had since regained a small measure of her critical thinking, and was now protesting quietly.

“She saved my life. Twice now.”

“She’s a killer!”

“You don’t know her like I do, Angela! She wasn’t always…who she is.”

“Then who was she?” Mercy’s voice was measured, but held a hint of exasperation.

“I…I can’t tell you that,” Tracer bit her lip, “It’s her decision to make.” Mercy ground her teeth.

“Look. Widowmaker asked me if she shot someone I liked. She hasn’t. But did you know, I’ve never worked on someone Widowmaker has gone after?” Mercy asked. Tracer shook her head.

“Never? You’ve worked everywhere! I would have thought-”

“I’ve never worked on anyone Widowmaker has gone after,” Mercy explained softly, “Because she doesn’t leave anyone alive.”

Tracer’s stomach twisted in nausea as Mercy leaned over her, her face grave.

“She shoots for the head, and always confirms her kills. She doesn’t want someone like me spoiling her fun by saving lives,” Mercy said, straightening up and peeling off her gloves. She started throwing tools into her bag with a barely contained anger. Tracer pulled herself into a sitting position groggily.

“Wait, Mercy-”

“I’m not going anywhere, Lena,” Mercy grumbled, “I’m going to order some food and sleep on your couch. You and Widowmaker can share your bed if you’re so cozy, or she can sleep on the floor. Or in the damned street.”

“Amélie.” Tracer’s voice was rough, but adamant. Mercy looked over her shoulder.

“Her name,” Tracer repeated, her eyes blurred by painkillers but somehow still terribly resolved, “Is Amélie.”

Mercy flinched away from whatever knowledge she saw weighing heavily in those eyes. She turned back to her tools and began to tidy things away.

“Amélie, then,” she said stiffly, “Go sit with her. I’m going to get some new blankets for your bed and order some food. You can’t have any right now, but you’ll both be starving when you wake up.”

“Look…thank you, Mercy. For helping her. For helping us.”

“You’re welcome,” Mercy said with a sigh, “But tomorrow? You, me, Winston, _and_ your new friend are having a _talk._ ”

Tracer’s stomach dropped.

“O-Oh,” she stammered, “A-Alright. If you insist.”

 

By the time Tracer had made it over to the couch, Mercy had disappeared to do laundry and fetch some new blankets, so they had the room to themselves. Lena slumped down on the couch beside Amélie and the taller woman turned to face her, smiling slightly.

“All better now?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

“For now, at least,” Lena replied, gnawing at her lip.

Amélie butted shoulders with Lena gently, then when the woman looked up, offered her hand.

Lena hesitated only an instant, then took it, lacing fingers with her. Amélie’s fingers felt warm, soft, and utterly right.

“We’re alive, chérie. I’ll take that as a win, _merci beaucoup._ ”

Lena didn’t respond save to give the woman’s hand a gentle squeeze. Amélie looked over at her.

“Something on your mind, darling?” she asked, knowing what was coming.

Lena nodded, considering her words.

“Amélie…why did you come after me? Why have you been…protecting me? Shadowing me? Why would you go to all that risk, betraying Talon, betraying…everything?” she asked, her tone hopeful. The sight of Lena’s face almost broke her heart- the sheer, barely concealed need for what Amélie couldn’t say was written plainly on her face.

She shrugged, turning away. That face was too painful to look at, and the words she needed to say would not come.

“Oh, you know what they say,” she mumbled, reaching an arm around Lena’s shoulders and drawing her body close. Lena let out a soft sigh, tinged with disappointment, but relaxed into her, her eyes fluttering closed.

“What do they say?” she asked quietly.

Amélie smiled and planted a kiss atop Lena’s head.

“ _Chechez la femme.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People clearly want more, so here's more!  
> Chapter notes:  
> 1) There's no smut in this chapter, because any more would push it over 10k words, which is too big. The next chapter (which is coming soon) will be a major smut interlude, possibly followed by a fourth chapter if people don't tell me to stfu.  
> 2) Mercy is actually a really nice woman, but Widowmaker is really not, so you're not seeing her at her best really.  
> 3) Tracer's ringtone is 'Learning to Fly' by Pink Floyd.  
> 4) Cherchez la femme is (aside from being one of Widowmaker's voice lines in game) a saying meaning 'Look for the woman', normally relating to how disturbances, crimes and other dramatic situations have begun, (Eg. Noir novels/films, etc.)  
> 5) I tried something different with the formatting this time. Hopefully it's better than the blocky stuff.
> 
> Kudos is loved, comments are ADORED, and as always, I hope you enjoy and Thanks for Reading!  
> (Also Hiroshi_Nakano@hotmail.co.uk is my contact for all commission based stuff!)


	3. Petit a petit

When Tracer finally woke, she was comfortably warm, deliciously relaxed, and almost entirely naked. Her eyes widened as she took in those sensations one by one, then lurched upright like a zombie out of the grave, her heart hammering. She lay in her bed, in her bedroom, with fresh covers draped over her body. She was a little more clothed than she’d thought in a sports bra and boy-shorts, but that definitely counted as _underwear_ , even if she had the little compact Chronal Accelerator on, stripped down to its standby mode. She yawned softly, trying to stretch out muscles made tense by inactivity. Her elbow bumped against something warm and yielding, and her eyes widened further. _That_ led her to the last and most important realization.

She turned her gaze slowly to one side, until it panned over Widowmaker, over Amélie, who sat propped upright by a trio of pillows- reading one of Lena’s dog-eared ‘romance’ novels. She was dressed in one of Tracer’s seldom-used chemises, a little black number that would have been intriguing enough on her lithe body even if she hadn’t been several inches taller than Lena, which thus reduced the chemise’s coverage to a scandalously small area that ended at the tops of her thighs. Her mouth suddenly felt very, very dry, and her face very, very hot.

Amélie turned to her and smiled, putting the book aside and leaning over to her, not that she had to lean far- the bed was a narrow little thing, not really designed for two people. Her presence, her heat, had Lena’s heart pounding in her chest and her stomach doing backflips even before she spoke.

“In bed wiz’ me at last, chérie,” she purred, “You must be dreaming.”

Tracer licked over her dry lips and tried to formulate a response. Nothing came to mind.

 _Okay, nothing that wasn’t utterly pornographic came to mind,_ she corrected.

“So…we’re okay?” she asked, stupidly, desperately searching for an icebreaker.

 _Brilliant bloody question, you dolt,_ she grumbled inwardly, _Way to knock her over with your sophisticated charm!_

“We are indeed,” Amélie said with that small smile on her face, “Mercy is sleeping in the next room. She said, hmm well let me see what she said…” she paused, tapping a finger against her lips, “Ah yes…”

She lifted that finger and flourished it, as if counting off.

“ _Un._ You’ll be thirsty when you wake up, so drink some water,” she indicated the nightstand, where a glass of water awaited. Lena turned, wincing as the motion pulled on her hip, and had half the glass drunk before she’d finished speaking. God, she was _parched!_

“ _Deux._ You’re going to be sore come morning, so there are more painkillers by the water. You can have two, and two only.” Tracer nodded but made no move to take them, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and sitting the glass back down. If Amélie noticed, which Tracer assumed she had, she didn’t comment. Truth be told, she wanted to be sober for what she dared to hope might happen that night.

“ _Trois._ I’m a notorious assassin and not to be trusted. If I so much as look at you wrong, she’ll throw me out the window and call the _policia,_ ” Amélie continued, in exactly the same voice. Lena groaned and rubbed at her forehead.

“Look I’m sorry-” she began, but Amélie held up a fourth finger, her smile widening.

“Which leads me neatly to _quatre,_ point number four,” she said, her smile a sultry little gleam in the darkness of the room, the only light spilling in from under the closed door, “I am not to make any assaults upon your ‘virtue’ under pain of the above window-throwing.”

Lena’s mouth fell open.

“She _didn’t!_ ”

“She did,” Amélie grinned, “However, it is standard procedure, _non_?”

“Standard procedure?”

“No feeding, no fighting, no fuc-”

“Alright, alright!” Lena’s voice was a little frantic as she waved the words away with both hands. She wasn’t sure she had enough blood to survive the epic blush that would result from Amélie’s lips saying _that_ particular word. Amélie let out a gratuitously pleased chuckle and leaned back into the bed, laying her arm across both pillows invitingly. Lena looked down at her, willing her eyes to sink no lower than Amélie’s neck, and failing almost immediately.

 

“Come here.” Amélie’s voice might have been quiet, but Lena could no more resist it than she could gravity. She sank into Amélie’s warm embrace and clung to her. The slender woman’s arms were so warm and so welcoming that she almost lost her mind right then and there.

Then, the realization that it was over, at least for today, hit her like a ton of bricks. There would be no more shooting, no more running, no more pain, no more fear, no more blood, no more death. The utter contrast between the horror of her day and the soft, quiet comfort of Amélie’s arms broke the last shreds of her self-control. She was crying before she knew what was happening; letting out big, ugly sobs into the woman’s uninjured shoulder. Amélie held her awkwardly, as best as she could with her injuries, stroking a hand down her nearly bare back.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, chérie,” she whispered, closing her eyes so that Lena wouldn’t see her own tears, “We’ve had a trying day, that’s all.” Lena let out a choked laugh into her shoulder, and clung to her all the harder. She held her until the tears stopped- it didn’t take long, just a minute or so of soft crying that devolved into a few sniffles batted away with the back of her hand. Another few minutes passed just like that, and for a moment, Amélie thought the diminutive woman had fallen asleep. But then she spoke suddenly, her voice soft but urgent.

“Don’t you ever bloody run off again, alright? I’ll kill you, I swear to god…” Lena said, trailing off meaningfully. Amélie looked down at her, then pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. Merciful god, she was intoxicated by this woman. She was so… _paradoxical_ \- tough and vulnerable, calming and energetic, acerbic and kind, open to her in so many ways, and closed in so many others. She took a deep breath and-

_You can’t do it. It’ll never work out. She’s a target. She’s nothing but a target._

_Talon will find you._

_Talon will find her._

_They’ll kill her._

_They’ll make you kill her._

_It won’t work._

_It can’t work._

She pressed her face into Tracer’s hair, smelling blood and gun smoke, shampoo, and the indefinable scent that was inexplicably _her._ She used that scent as her anchor, pulling herself into the present, pushing the programming away. That was the past, now. _Lena_ was the future.

“I promise you, Lena Oxton,” she said, the words muffled but firm, “I won’t run from you ever again.”

_It’s easy to say that, but you’re lying._

_You have to be lying._

Lena pulled her face from her shoulder and looked up at her. The expression on her face was a mixture of hope, disbelief, and utter joy. Then that expression was taken from her sight as Lena leaned up to kiss her. Her eyes closed on reflex, and she melted into the smaller woman’s embrace, their legs tangling clumsily as they tried to find a position comfortable for both of their injured bodies. Lena’s mouth tasted like…it tasted like Lena. That was all she knew, all she needed. Her lips were so soft, so warm, so utterly tender with her that she couldn’t help but groan into the kiss. That sent a shudder through Lena’s body, and moments later she felt a hand slide up her thigh in a most deliberately _un-chaste_ way. Her hand caught Lena’s about three inches below her backside, and she broke the kiss gently.

“Now, now, chérie,” she whispered, “Doctor’s orders.”

Lena’s grin was luminous in the shadowed room.

“She said you couldn’t attack _my_ virtue,” Lena purred, her voice suddenly predatory, “Not that I couldn’t attack yours.” Amélie gulped, her throat suddenly dry. The situation seemed to have changed in an eye blink, almost without her noticing, and power-shift left her reeling.

“Oh?” she whispered quietly. Lena’s grin widened, and Amélie was suddenly aware of their differing…experience. She might play the femme fatale role, and play it _well,_ but Lena was the one whose hot, energetic grasp on her upper thigh told her that she was no stranger to being in bed with a woman.

“I think the dear doctor ‘as the wrong idea about our relationship,” Lena purred, guiding the Frenchwoman down onto her back, leaning down to place a wet, warm kiss across Amélie’s collarbone, her lips parting to allow her tongue access to the delicate skin, scoring a burning line across her flesh. Amélie gasped and arched her back, the tiny bed leaving her no way to retreat, “I don’t think she understands which one of us is predator,” she hissed against her, sinking her teeth into the hollow of her throat, drawing another, longer gasp from Amélie’s lips, “And which of us is _prey._ ”

Amélie writhed helplessly beneath her, her French seductress act in tatters. Above her, Lena was pinning her to the bed, her mouth working over every inch of her exposed skin. She kissed from the furthest reach of her shoulder, down the line of her collarbone and back up into her neck, pausing only to grant a soft, nibbling kiss to her racing pulse-point. Her normally placid heart thumped furiously, pumping blood directly to only two places; across her cheeks, and between her thighs.

“O-Oh…” Amélie sighed, “W-We have a relationship?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat.

Lena paused, pulling back after fluttering half a dozen butterfly kisses across the delicate skin of her neck, propping herself up above the taller woman, looking down on her with her messy hair strewn in a halo around her like the patron saint of tomboys.

“We do,” she said, though her glittering eyes held a wary reserve in them. They both knew it was not as simple as that. But…it was enough.

Amélie looked up at her, lust-drunk, and pulled her down into another fierce kiss that left the pair of them panting when they parted. Lena grinned.

“So…Amélie…” she asked teasingly, tracing one hand down the line of her cheek, “’Ave you ever been with a woman?”

Amélie swallowed roughly and thought back through the drifting cobwebs of her memories. No, she’d met Gerard when she was young, she knew that, and she’d certainly never strayed. Which meant…She shook her head weakly.

“ _Non._ ” she said softly.

Lena Oxton grinned down at her.

“Would you like to?”

“ _Mon dieu,”_ Amélie whispered, “I would, Lena, I really would.”

 

Lena kissed her then- hot and hard and fierce, thrusting her tongue into her defenseless mouth, twining it with Amélie’s more hesitant muscle, reveling in the softness of her lips. This was nothing like the kisses she’d shared before- the tender, romantic, explorative kisses that had so drawn her to Lena. This was _hunger._ This was _desire._ And she welcomed it in kind, her hands grasping Lena’s hips, curling round to take a firm hold of her backside. For her part, Lena’s hands roamed eagerly, running up Amélie’s thighs and the generous curve of her hips, pushing up the chemise as her fingers encountered it. Her fingertips brushed against bare skin, and she pulled back- breaking the kiss with a frustrated growl of utter arousal.

“You’re not wearing any underwear,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Amélie chuckled and shook her head.

“I didn’t ‘ave any, and putting some of yours on seemed contrary to my objectives.”

“Oh, I see,” Lena leered, “Your ‘objectives’ is it?”

She pressed closer and planted a kiss over the woman’s collarbone, her fingers coming up to tease the chemise’s top aside so that she could trace her burning little kisses down the slope of Amélie’s chest. Those fingers guided the straps of the chemise down Amélie’s shoulders, tugging the thin fabric downwards to slowly reveal the soft, heavy perfection of the Frenchwoman’s breasts. From her position against them, Lena took a moment to admire the sight. They really were just as good as they’d looked while held tight by that ludicrous cat suit- full, plump and surprisingly perky for their size. Her skin was the same dusky blue as her face, and her nipples were a darker, purplish pair of strikingly hard nubs that practically _begged_ for attention.

Lena was only too happy to oblige, ending her little series of kisses by taking one of Amélie’s nipples into her mouth, suckling on it tenderly and swirling her tongue around it. Amélie gasped, and her hands tightened on that firm handful of the backside that she’d admired for so long. It was just as fantastic as she’d thought it would feel beneath her hands, and she gave the cheeks a harsh squeeze with just a taste of her fingernails for good measure. Lena hissed, her breath hot against Amélie’s chest, and grazed her teeth against that nipple in retaliation.

“Nngh, like to play rough, do ya?” she hissed, pulling back from the nub with a lewd popping sound and kissing her way over to grace its twin with her mouth, “Just you wait, love.”

She had only just begun lavishing attention upon that second erect little nipple before Amélie’s hands were pushing her away, grabbing impatiently at her sports bra, brushing fingernails along her taut little stomach. Lena chuckled as Amélie’s fingers got caught in the slender straps of her chronal accelerator and she fumbled, trying to slip the tight bra under or around the straps, her arousal turning her dexterous fingers into clumsy pincers. Finally she gave up, throwing her hands up with a snarl.

“Urgh, enough! Can you take this glowing _merde_ off, Lena?” she asked, as Tracer batted her hands away, straightening the straps and brushing a hand down the metal. Most of the glowing equipment had come off- Mercy had removed it carefully with a little screwdriver and some twisting clasps, leaving it as little more than a miniature harness and a thin hand span of futuristic looking metal and dim blue light that pulsed in time to some unknowable rhythm.

“This is as much of it as comes off, love, unless you want me to vanish,” Lena said, giving her partner a chiding look. Amélie reached out, catching one of Lena’s hands and tugging it to her lips, where she layered kisses over her fingers, one after the other.

“Anything but that, chérie,” she whispered, her breath warming Lena’s knuckles ticklishly, making her giggle.

“Alright then,” Lena said, her hands and arms moving dexterously in a way that seemed almost magical to Amélie, but that left her clad in that little harness but holding the sports bra in her hand. Her gaze tracked from the discarded garment to Lena’s chest, and her mouth almost watered. Lena had a rather modest chest, as far as simple measurements went, but that fact failed to convey the utter perky beauty of her pale breasts, topped with rosy little nipples that just-

Lena gasped as Amélie’s hands slid around her hips, holding in place so that she could straighten up and feast her mouth on those supple curves- kissing, licking, teasing, and suckling hungrily. Lena’s protests quickly quieted to a series of whining gasps, and she arched her back, offering more of herself to the Frenchwoman’s eager mouth. This time it was Amélie who laughed, the vibration sending little jolts of pleasure through Tracer’s chest.

“Sensitive, _non?_ ” she teased, “I think I just found your weak-point, chérie.”

In response, a hand slid down into the narrow space between the two of them, and eased itself between Widowmaker’s luscious thighs. Amélie gasped as a pair of Tracer’s fingers caressed her from bottom to top, sliding slickly through embarrassing wetness to circle her clit slowly. Tracer grinned.

_Of course she’s shaved. Must make it easier to slip into that ridiculous outfit…_

“Mmmph, don’t make me get competitive with you, ‘cherry’,” Lena teased back, “Cos I’ll bloody well win.”

“Nngh, we’ll see, Lena, we’ll see…” said Amélie, tugging on a nipple with her long, nimble fingers while her mouth lavished attention upon the other, working over the sensitive little peaks, slowly learning what made her diminutive lover gasp (the soft brushes of her teeth), and what made her moan breathily (the hungry swirling, suckling motions of her lips and tongue). For all Tracer’s defiance, she was just as turned on as her partner, and her whimpered sounds of arousal were just as desperate and pleased. Her fingers were just about to take things to the next level when Amélie’s hands spun her around, throwing her firmly onto her back with a soft thump. Before she could speak, Amélie had her mouth back on her breasts, her hands clumsily hooking into Tracer’s boyshorts and tugging at them.

 

“A-Ah, hey! What are you-” Lena broke off as her tangled legs forced Amélie to practically rip the tight underwear from her hips with a straining, tearing sound, “Oi! Bloody hell love, those aren’t exactly cheap, y’know!?”

“I don’t care, chérie,” Amélie hissed, kissing her way down Lena’s quivering stomach, making her giggle breathlessly, “But I know I’m going to _die_ of anticipation if I don’t get to see you naked in the next ten seconds, so _fermez la bouche,_ Lena.”

Her hands eased Tracer’s muscular thighs apart, taking their time about it and stroking smoothly up and down their toned lengths while her mouth made its way past the woman’s navel, her tongue flicking out to cut off her reply in another burst of giggles. And then she was past it, and Lena Oxton lay naked beneath her hands and her mouth, save for the glowing light of her anchor to the present.

She was perfect.

She was slender and muscular, her hips curving out with a boyish but feminine flair that seemed to be made for Amélie’s hands to caress. Her taut stomach held the slightest suggestion of abdominals beneath their pale skin, and ended in a smooth, slightly puffy mound that was bare save for-

“Really?” Amélie said, chuckling deep in her throat, “A landing strip, chérie?”

She could have sworn that Tracer’s cheeks were flushed in the darkness of the room.

“Oh shut up, I just keep it neat, that’s a _ooooh_ -”she broke off as Amélie’s lips pressed a soft kiss to the downy strip of dark hair that adorned her mound.

“I’m not complaining,” Amélie purred, kissing lower and lower, drawing out the curtain call of their foreplay with agonizing patience. Finally she pressed those gorgeously full lips to the little pink hood of Lena’s clitoris, making her groan in frustration. There was a pause- one that started teasing and slid slowly into awkwardness. Finally, Tracer lifted her head, raising an eyebrow.

“Something wrong, love?” she asked nervously. Amélie looked up at her, desire heavy in her eyes, and Lena forgot what she was asking as she enjoyed the sight of the beautiful Frenchwoman’s face between her thighs.

“Not at all chérie,” Amélie whispered, turning her face aside to plant a kiss on the inside of her thigh before returning to her goal, “I’ve just…never been on this particular side of the arrangement…”

“ _Oh_. Oooh,” Lena gasped as Amélie ran her tongue from the bottom to the top of her slit, ending in another full lipped kiss to her swollen clit, “You’re a-ah, doing fine, love. Nothing to it. Just…have fun exploring, alright?”

“That seems assured,” Amélie sighed happily, her tongue parting Lena’s pussy with an easy motion, spreading her, slowly gliding up to her firm little nub, swirling her tongue around it softly. Lena tasted…perfect. Almost indescribably, really- she tasted living, vital, _human._ The tangy sweetness of her was like an intoxicant to Amélie’s newly awakened desire, and with her only memories of lovemaking hidden behind a foggy veil of brainwashing, every kiss, every motion and every sound was a new experience, almost overwhelming in intensity. Lena’s voice cut through the haze as she gasped.

“You can- oh _Christ,_ you can be rougher than that, darling, you ain’t gonna break me!” she insisted, her hips starting to grind into the clumsy motions of Amélie’s tongue, “Oh bloody hell, yeah, that’s right-”

Amélie abandoned her newly found exploration of the inside of Tracer’s pussy to focus on that swollen bud, to the Londoner’s vocal encouragement, her tongue lapping firmly against it, around it, over it in dizzying circles as Lena made the dirtiest little cries and moans imaginable. Those moans escalated into a little muffled shriek as Amélie slid two fingers into that tight little cunt with shocking ease, forcing the woman to turn her face into the pillow to silence her sounds of pleasure. She marveled at the tight, soaking heat around her fingers, the way that each thrusting motion made it harder to withdraw from the clenching confines.

 _Of course Lena is muscled everywhere,_ she thought with a grin, thrusting her fingers harder, curling them up in a beckoning motion that made Lena swear violently into the pillow, her hips rocking rhythmically as her motions and her words became more and more desperate.

“Amélie, _f-fuck_ , c’mon, just like that. Yeah, use your tongue, god, oh god, oh _bloody fucking god_ ,” she pleaded in an urgent litany of curses, “Don’t stop love, don’t bloody stop, oh god, s-suck on it, just suck on my clit and keep t-thrusting o- _oooh fucking Christ, oh Amélie, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m-_ ”

Amélie had absolutely no intention of stopping anything while Tracer was saying her name like that. Instead, her lips formed a tight little seal over her lover’s clit and she suckled enthusiastically, picking up on the fact that Lena didn’t seem to mind a little pain with her pleasure, in moderation at least. She might be new, but she wasn’t stupid, and with Tracer’s directions, she proved to be a quick learner. It wasn’t hard to focus her attention on that little pearl of pleasure while her fingers plunged back and forth with lewd squishing noises. Lena, for her part, simply humped her hips frantically into Amélie’s mouth without restraint for maybe twenty seconds before coming apart with a wail, screaming out her lover’s name into the softness of her heavy pillow. Amélie could feel the blood racing through the woman’s clit, pulsing in time to her heartbeat as she came, her pussy clenching down and quivering on those urgent fingers, holding them in place and squeezing in long, satisfied motions.

Her motions became jerky and spasmodic for a long minute, her moans trailing off to soft little whines as she rode her climax out against Amélie’s face and fingers. Reduced to a limp, shuddering heap, her bare skin beaded with sweat, her stomach quivering with the aftershocks, she lay there senselessly. Slowly Amélie withdrew her soaking fingers, making Lena whimper as she did so, her insides almost reluctant to allow them to leave. Amélie wiped them off on the ruined underwear, and crawled her way up to her lover’s side, making as if to kiss her, then hesitating when she felt the sticky slickness of Lena’s release across her face and lips. Tracer made a snorting noise and dragged her down into a kiss, utterly unfazed by tasting herself on Amélie’s lips, even going so far as to press her tongue into the Frenchwoman’s mouth and plundering what was left of her own juices, apparently reveling in it if the small, satisfied noise she made was anything to go by. Amélie was panting and breathless by the time they parted, her eyes lazily lidded.

 

“Do you-”

“Doesn’t bother me. Honestly, I like it, tasting myself. But now I think I owe you, mademoiselle,” Lena teased, “Can’t be falling asleep without getting you off at _least_ as hard as you just managed with me…”

Amélie flushed and shook her head, chuckling.

“Ah, there’s no need to go that far,” she said softly. Tracer lifted herself slowly, propping her body up to a sitting position that quickly faltered as pain jolted through her hip, knocking her flat onto her back with a muffled curse. “It’s alright, chérie, you really don’t have to-”

“I want to, Amélie,” Tracer whispered, willing the woman to see the truth and the _desire_ in her eyes, “I _really_ want to. Now get up here.”

She crooked a finger, beckoning the woman closer. Amélie raised her eyebrow, puzzlement on her face.

“Up where?” she asked, confused. Tracer blew out a breath, rolling her eyes.

“Up _here,_ ” she repeated, grabbing Amélie’s hips and tugging on them to make clear her directions, “Do I have to draw you a bloody diagram?”

“Apparently,” Amélie chuckled, running her fingers across Lena’s cheek, “I’m not quite sure what you’re asking for, chérie.”

Lena stared at her for a long moment, then blew out a breath of laughter. It wasn’t mocking so much as genuinely amused, and it made Amélie’s heart swell to hear the simple joy in it. She fixed the Frenchwoman with a searching look, then broke into a sudden smile.

“Ahhh god, some femme fatale you are, love.” she teased. When she spoke again, her voice was a jolly, sing-song soprano.

 _“Roses are red, and so are my lips,”_ she sang, grinning, “ _So sit on my face, and wiggle your hips.”_

Amélie couldn’t help it. She burst into sudden, startled laughter, putting her face in her hands. Her chest heaved, and she could feel her cheeks burning with utter embarrassment, though whether at herself or at her dirty-poem spouting partner she didn’t know. Lena’s laughter joined hers a moment later, like a merry ringing bell in contrast to Amélie’s lower, throatier chuckle. Amélie’s heart twinged as a vague memory rose in her hindbrain- lying with Gerard on their honeymoon, laughing out of sheer joy at the pleasure and the life that they had to share. It receded quickly, like a sudden wave, gone almost as soon as it had arrived.

 _Ah, Gerard, forgive me,_ she murmured to herself, _Don’t hold her against me, I beg you._

Lena’s hands squeezed her hips lightly, and she lowered her hands to look down at the grinning Brit. She tried for stern, but in the face of those raised eyebrows and the sheer glee at her own joke, she couldn’t manage it. She started chuckling again, and reached down to flick the girl’s nose pointedly.

“Ow! Alright, alright, maybe it was in poor taste,” Lena giggled, “But how about it? Come here and let me make _you_ feel good this time?” Amélie turned the thought over in her mind, then cocked her head.

“Are you going to be alright? I’m a little ‘eavy for you, and you’re hurt-“

“Nah, we’ll be fine love. Keep your weight on your knees and a little on your hips, and we’ll have a grand time. Now, are you gonna keep me waiting all night?” Lena’s voice dropped from her sensible explanation to a breathy growl, “I want to _taste_ you, Amélie.”

_Oh Mon Dieu. What could I say to that?_

She nodded shallowly, and began the slow climb up the narrow bed, aided by Tracer’s hands, until she knelt, squatting at the top of her chest and looking down at her lover with both hands on the headboard. Lena matched her stare for stare, then slowly, deliberately licked her lips.

“Come on, love. I’m gonna make you cum so hard, I promise you…” she whispered roughly, “C’mon, you’re not gonna break me, I swear.”

Her cheeks burning, and her cunt shockingly wet, Amélie obeyed. She shifted forward, squaring her hips with the cheeky Brit’s face and lowering herself daintily until she felt the sudden softness of the girl’s skin, followed by the heat of her lips as they introduced themselves to her pussy. She gasped, letting out a soft cry as Tracer’s tongue slid inside her, making good on its promise to taste her. It squirmed hotly inside her, forcing her to rock her hips slowly to its rhythm, forcing greater cries from her lips moment by moment as the sensation intensified. Lena leaned back, breaking the contact for just a moment to whisper sharply to her.

“Mercy!” she hissed, and for a moment Amélie thought that she was crushing the girl with her hips, until the realization hit her and she nodded, biting down on her lip. Tracer nodded approvingly, at least until Amélie surprised her by pressing her hips back down significantly harder than before, muffling Lena’s moan of approval with her soaking cunt. Taking the initiative, Amélie began to rock her hips, letting Lena focus her tongue’s efforts on her swollen clit. Soon she was gasping and moaning through her lip-bite, loosing one hand from the headboard to wind it through Tracer’s thick, glossy hair, tugging on it when the woman’s tongue hit her clit just right.

That happened more and more often, the diminutive Brit clearly being no stranger to this particular rodeo, her tongue teasing forth reactions with experience and a certain flair as she swirled it around the pretty pink hood of Amélie’s clit. Her hands never left Amélie’s skin either, gripping her hips, guiding her rocking, thrusting motions, occasionally grasping and groping at her generous backside when she felt she could get away with it. Amélie tried to catch her breath and prolong her pleasure, her cheeks flushed and her breathing harsh thanks to the sheer energetic skill that Lena was showing in her work, but a hand smacked solidly into her left buttock. She let out a startled squeak and jerked her hips forward while Tracer chuckled, sending little pleasurable vibrations through her hips as she was forced to return to her grinding, rocking motions.

It didn’t take long for her to get close- in almost an embarrassingly short amount of time she could feel the heat and pressure rising in the pit of her stomach. Lena’s lashing tongue was working over her clit in fast, firm little motions, teasing over the sensitive bud until she felt as if she were melting, no longer sure where her flesh ended and Lena’s tongue began, their bodies melding together. The rhythm overtook her and she pressed her hips down harder, desperate for more pressure, more pleasure, for that last little piece that would push her over the edge. Lena’s hands squeezed her backside hard, arresting her motion and suckling hard on her needy clit, grazing it lightly with her teeth. That was all she needed.

She came apart with a sudden cry, remembering at the last second to slap her hand over her own mouth, the other too busy tugging Lena’s hair in a tight handful. She came with a wordless moan of mind-melting pleasure, her back bending into an arch, her hips pressing and rocking back and forth as she rode out an unbelievably strong climax atop Lena’s face. Fire swept through her, from her hips to her head, wiping her thoughts away, and when it passed, she was left shuddering in the aftershocks, slumping down loose-limbed and shaky in a sitting position, the muscles of her thighs quivering. After a few moments, Lena slapped her thigh rhythmically. She looked down, her eyes hazy, then remembered exactly _where_ she was sitting. Quickly, she levered herself up and managed to clumsily slump to one side, tumbling onto the bed. Beside her, Lena panted hard, her chest rising and falling frantically.

“Ah! Désolé chérie.” Amélie’s voice was an embarrassed, pleased little whisper. Her body felt as if she had run a marathon, and her limbs felt loose and languorous. Lena chuckled weakly.

“No problem, love, no problem,” she said, her tone almost indecently satisfied, “That’s the way I’d wanna go, if I got to choose!”

Amélie slapped her arm chidingly, settling down beside her in the narrow bed. Lena wiped her face with the back of her hand and propped herself up, grinning nervously.

“Do you…err, do you mind? I can go rinse my mouth out, or…” she began. Amélie shook her head and leaned in to kiss her, barely tasting her juices on Tracer’s lips for all the uniqueness that was the taste of Lena herself. The kiss was a brief one, necessitated by the burning pain in her shoulder and the lingering shortness of her breath. She parted with a gasp and rested her forehead against her partner’s.

“Non, chérie, I don’t mind at all,” she purred.

 

Time passed then, slowly and without real meaning to the two of them. They lay, limbs entwined, Amélie’s head resting in the nook of Lena’s neck and shoulder, their breathing slow and steady. Neither of them spoke, content in one another’s company for the time being. It had taken a certain amount of shuffling to find a position that they could lay in without it hurting one or the other of them, so neither of them planned on moving much. It could have been a minute or an hour later when Tracer finally broke the silence.

“Amélie…I wanted to ask you something,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant. Beside her, Amélie stiffened slightly, her mind conjuring the scenario she’d been waiting for since the Brit had woken up.

 _Here we go,_ she thought, _I told you it wouldn’t work out. I told you we couldn’t be together._

“You…You killed those men today.” Tracer’s voice was soft and solemn. Amélie’s heart dropped in her chest.

_I told you._

_Monster._

_Killer._

_Assassin._

 

“I know,” Amélie said softly. She rose gracefully, dislodging Lena from where she lay beside her, shifting sideways, sliding her legs around until she sat at the edge of the bed, hands braced to push herself off, “I can go, if you would prefer...”

“Eh!? Wait! No, Amélie!” Lena said, startled. She lunged upwards, wrapping her arms around the woman’s waist, pulling her backwards until she could rest her head against the Frenchwoman’s spine, “That’s not it at all!”

Amélie swallowed roughly, hesitating. She wanted to leave, wanted to run, wanted Talon to attack the damned building. Anything to avoid this conversation.

“What is it, then?” she asked in the ghost of a whisper. Lena sighed, her breath hot against Amélie’s bare shoulders.

“I wanted to say thank you,” Lena murmured. Amélie’s eyes widened and her eyebrows rose.

“Thank you? For what?”

“You saved me,” Lena explained, “And you had to kill to do it. That couldn’t have been easy.”

Amélie shivered, though the room was close and heavy with warmth.

_Darling, if you knew how easy it was, you wouldn’t deign to touch me._

“ _De rien_ , Lena. It was nothing.” Her voice was soft, apologetic.

“It was _not_ nothing.” Tracer insisted firmly, “Killing people, saving my life…it’s not nothing.”

With one hand, she reached around to trace her fingers down the line of Amélie’s cheek.

“How can you stand it?” she asked, and her voice was so quietly sad that it made Amélie shiver.

 

“It’s what I am.” That was all she could say. The truth.

Lena frowned unseen, and leaned in to bite her lover’s shoulder, making her gasp sharply.

“It’s not what you are. It’s not _who_ you are,” she said firmly, drawing back to plant a kiss where the bite mark lingered in indentations on her pale blue skin.

“It’s nngh- what they made me.”

“I told you, Amélie. You. Are. _Alive_.”

“What does that mean, my stubborn English girl?” Amélie’s voice was thick with frustration, “What does that even mean?”

“It means you have a choice.” Lena’s voice was very quiet as she planted a kiss over the indentation of her teeth, her lips soothing the pain away, “It means you get to decide who you want to be; the woman who kills to feel alive? Or the woman in my arms right now.”

Amélie shuddered, fighting the programming away, fighting the evil little voice that told her that she had no choices left to her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the warmth of Lena’s lips, of her touch, her simple presence. Did she have a choice? And if she did, who _was_ the woman in Lena’s arms? Was she a good person? Or was she just not as bad as the Widowmaker?

“It’s not…it’s not that easy, chérie.” she whispered. Lena sighed again and kissed her neck, making her shiver once more.

“I know. I don’t think it’s ever going to be easy. But that just means it’s worth doing, don’t it?” Lena said firmly, “I believe in you, Amélie.”

Amélie took a deep breath, feeling her heart beating slowly in her chest, a slower, measured beat to the thrumming companion that beat in Lena’s breast. I am alive, she thought to herself. I am _alive._

“I…” she whispered, “I want to be the woman in your arms. I…”

She hesitated, then willed a little prayer of forgiveness to her late husband.

“I think I love you, Lena Oxton. And I don’t want to be the Widowmaker, anymore.”

She felt, rather than heard, Lena stop breathing. Her delicate touch was a balm as it turned her cheek, guiding her mouth to Lena’s lips. The kiss was soft, slow, sweet, and achingly brief.

“I love you too, Amélie, god help me,” Lena whispered, her normally bright voice soft and earnest as she spoke, “I’ll help you. I promise, whatever happens, I’ll help you.”

They sat there for a while, foreheads touching, hearts beating. And if they didn’t beat in time, at least they beat together.

“ _Je t’aime, chérie, Je t’aime,”_ Amélie murmured, more to block out the little voice inside her than because it needed to be said. The voice was a bitter little whisper inside her, the pessimistic mix of brainwashing and resignation that told her that she neither needed nor deserved a future so bright.

 

_You’re lying, the voice said._

_You have to be lying._

She pushed it back down, leaning back against Lena’s strong shoulders, feeling the warmth of her breath brush rhythmically over her bare skin.

_I might be lying. I might be mistaken. But if I am lying, well…_

_…Well then let’s lie a little longer._

* * *

 

Outside, in the quiet apartment, a figure lay swathed in blankets on the comfortable looking couch, breathing slowly. Light flickered over her from its source; the ending credits of _GoldenEye_ rolling silently down the TV screen. The light illuminated a table littered with foil containers, some of which still held leftover rice, chicken and a little plastic fork. Incongruously, the Chinese take-away shared spare with a sophisticated looking pistol of white and black metal, lying well within reach of the apparently slumbering woman.

The muffled sound of moaning slid from beneath the bedroom door, echoed by the creaking of bedsprings. The bundle of blankets grumbled and rolled over, shifting in the makeshift bed. For a while, the noises lapsed into silence.

“O-Oh, Amélie!” cried a muffled voice that was still recognizable as Tracer despite the door between them. In her narrow little sofa-bed, Mercy pulled the blankets up over her head, flushing furiously.

“Oh mein gott,” she swore, “I do _not_ need to hear this.”

The sound of creaking grew slightly louder, and Tracer’s voice rose in a steady stream of lewd curses.

Angela Zeigler settled her hands firmly over her ears and closed her eyes, her cheeks burning. She considered the potential benefit of bursting in and throwing a bucket of water over the two of them, then reconsidered. She wasn’t at all sure it would be worth seeing the state the two of them were in when she came through the door.

“Oh god, Amélie, don’t s-stop!”

“That’s it!” she grumbled, getting to her feet. She swiped the pistol from the table and slipped it into a heavy jacket as she stormed outside, shutting the door gently despite her frustration. In the dim light of the apartment’s hall, she took out her cell phone and dialed slowly. The number only had to ring twice.

 

“Dr. Zeigler! Strange to hear from you so late. Is something wrong?” asked a gentle basso voice.

“Winston,” Angela sighed, “I’m not surprised you’re still up.”

“Well you know, these late nights. I’m trying to refine a new shield generator by mixing the harmonic- well, actually it’s more like-” Winston began, starting in on his explanation with the simple belief that anyone he was talking to could more or less follow along, regardless of the number of degrees he had.

“If I could just stop you there, Winston, there _is_ actually something wrong.” Angela said tightly, her voice strained.

“Oh. Of course. What’s happening?” Winston’s voice was a low, gently concerned rumble, and Angela had to remind herself that the speaker was about eight feet tall when standing upright, and weighed more than five hundred pounds.

“Well…let me start at the beginning…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's the update! Surprise! It's lewd as fuck!
> 
> Chapter Notes:  
> 1) Yeah, so far the chapters are named after character quotes (except for the eponymous chapter)  
> 2) There will be more actual plot in the next chapter!  
> 3) Domtracer is love Domtracer is life. Actually I prefer not to introduce too much of a dom/sub dynamic in this piece. I see them both as switches.  
> 4) In my view, Tracer is a lesbian (or possibly bisexual), and reasonably experienced. She's had a few relationships that didn't last, a few flings once she got used to the idea of being swung from military base to military base and the whole Overwatch thing preventing her from really having any long term relationships.  
> 5) I hope you enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> Views and kudos are loved, comments are ADORED, and as always; Thank you for reading!  
> For commissions, email Hiroshi_Nakano@hotmail.co.uk  
> For feeding me ramen, see https://digitaltipjar.com/SatsunonSavior/


	4. ...

Falling…

              tripping…

                               sliding…

 

Like a ghost.

Like a whisper of a name.  

Like a single breath,

 

Spreading out to fill the dusty corners of a room.

 

 

Where am I?

 

What happened to me?

 

…Amélie…

 

Where are you, Amélie?

 

Please don’t leave me here…

 

I’m begging you.

 

Please.

 

* * *

 


	5. Une balle, un mort

This time it seemed, it was Amélie’s turn to sleep in. She came to slowly, murmuring a sleepy complaint as daylight blazed down upon her face, dazzling her newly awakened senses. Comprehension arrived in bits and pieces- she was…comfortable? Languid, relaxed, the soft pressure of bedsheets delightfully sensual against her bare skin. She hadn’t felt like this since Gerard had…

She sat upright suddenly, her eyes snapping open.

_Oh mon dieu, what did I do- no, what did -we- do last night!?_

“Having second thoughts, love?” a cheery voice suggested from beside her. She looked round slowly, blinking sleep from her eyes. Tracer lay next to her in that cramped little bed, one hand resting possessively on her hip, the other propping herself up. She was wide awake, albeit with her hair still tousled messily from sleep, and she was entirely, gloriously naked. She wore the little stripped down harness for her Chronal Accelerator, but as that didn’t cover anything, Amélie discounted it. Definitely naked. Wonderfully, gloriously naked.

Amélie winced guiltily at how near the mark her lover’s guess had come, and slumped back down into bed with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. She managed to force a laugh and reached over to ruffle Tracer’s thick, messy hair.

“I bet you don’t get many of those from your partners, Lena,” she teased.

“You’d be surprised,” Tracer said wryly, “Most of the girls I end up with are _spaghetti_.”

“Spaghetti?” she asked, cocking her head to fix the girl with a quizzical look. Tracer grinned, and clarified.

“Straight until they get hot and wet.”

Amélie let out a shocked little burst of laughter, real laughter this time, shaking her head.

“And then in the morning…”

Tracer nodded, then put on a vaguely American accent- something from the west coast, possibly California.

“Oh it’s not you, it’s me- it’s just a phase I’m going through- I just wanted to see what it was like- really I’m just finding myself- I mean, it’s nothing like _real_ sex-” she broke off with a frustrated noise, resuming her usual voice, “And other bollocks of that nature. If they’ve got an insulting line, I’ve heard it.”

“Ah, I begin to see.” Widowmaker’s tone was serious, though her eyes glittered with amusement.

“And…well I just wondered…you weren’t…you didn’t _used_ to be…” Tracer fumbled, until Widowmaker took mercy on her.

“You’re wondering if I’ve changed my mind about my…orientation?” she asked. Tracer just nodded.

She lifted herself up to a sitting position in one smooth motion, her hands pushing up from the bed and coming further up to wrap themselves in that thick mane of hair that sprouted from Tracer’s scalp. She drew the slender girl into a kiss- firm, hard, and hungry. She pressed her tongue aggressively into her mouth, plundering her, claiming her, and leaving absolutely no uncertainty as to the depths of her desire. By the time they surfaced for air, Tracer’s cheeks were a bright, luminescent pink. But Amélie was not finished. She took a solemn breath, and blew it out slowly, then fixed the blushing Brit with a serious, almond-eyed stare.

_Well then, time to see if we can say it, in the light of day._

“I love you, Lena Oxton,” she said softly, “Don’t you dare think that isn’t still true.”

Tracer just stared for a long moment, her face growing increasingly hot. Finally she ducked her head in an embarrassed nod.

“Right-o,” she mumbled, “I…erm…I love you too.”

Amélie couldn’t help but snort out an amused breath.

“Something the matter, chérie?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

“No, no!” Tracer mumbled, “I’m just…erm…well…I’m becoming increasingly aware that I’m naked and in bed with a beautiful woman.”

Amélie’s dirty little chuckle sent a little shiver of desire through Lena’s hips, and her flush extended all the way down her neck.

“’ad it been a while, before _moi_?” she asked teasingly. Lena nodded, her voice rough.

“Yeah. More than a while.”

“So…” Amélie sighed, over exaggerating as she slid down into a slouch that emphasized the long, lean lines of her body, fingers tracing lightly over Tracer’s hand upon her hip.

“So…” Lena echoed, swallowing hard.

 

_THUMP THUMP THUMP_

The hammering on the door made both of them jump what felt like twenty feet up into the air. Amélie went pale, her heart hammering at the same time that Lena drew a pistol up from under her pillow.

“Guten Morgen, my patients!” came the unmistakable voice of Mercy, bright and almost maliciously cheery despite the early hour, “Breakfast is ready, and it will not wait for you!”

Behind her, Amélie heard Tracer groan.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning to you too, Frau Cock-Block!” Tracer said cheerily as she stumbled into the main room of the apartment a few minutes later, her hair scarcely more tamed despite the attentions of a brush, “Hope you slept well!”

Mercy fixed the Brit with a gimlet stare and pushed a mug of tea into her hands firmly.

“I tried to, but someone decided to reenact ‘Natural Geographic’ in the other room, so I didn’t get much rest.” Her voice was the disapproving grumble of a perpetually light sleeper.

“Ah…umm…sorry,” Tracer had the good grace to look abashed as she sat down at the kitchen table. Instead of her usual outfit, she had opted for tracksuit bottoms and a white tank-top, over which sat the humming harness of her Chronal Accelerator, back to its usual self once more. Mercy plopped down her breakfast; two thick white tablets and a foil tray of reheated rice and Szechuan chicken, which she dug into with relish, barely pausing to breathe. All things considered, it was surprisingly good, though after so long without food she would have eaten the _tray_ and still enjoyed it.

Suddenly, she felt a heavy weight settle over her shoulders, and she looked up to see Mercy adjusting her prized leather jacket down onto her. She gasped in surprise, her hand coming up to run over the reassuring thickness of the material, over the patch that bore her call-sign. Mercy smiled slightly.

“I threw it in the sink with a soap blend I use a lot. It’s good for bloodstains. The leather is a little darker in patches, but I think it will survive,” she explained, brushing some imagined dust or dirt from one shoulder. Tracer’s smile broke into a grin.

“Awesome! Thanks, mum.”

Mercy swatted her on the back of the head, furrowing her brows playfully.

“I am _ten_ years older than you, Lena Oxton, do _not_ try and make me feel any older! And I only did it because I know you love that stupid jacket, so be quiet and eat your breakfast!”

 

Behind them in the doorway, Amélie stood and watched the unfolding domestic scene with a small smile on her face. She had noticed the woman’s affection for that jacket on the few occasions they had crossed swords, but it was good to know that she considered it a prized possession.

 _And she used it to staunch my blood without even hesitating,_ her brain added quietly.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a seething glare from Mercy, who put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows into an expression of almost _mortal_ offense.

“Widow- Amélie, why are you not dressed?” she asked, as if she were talking to an idiot. Behind her, Tracer bristled and opened her mouth, but was silenced by Amélie’s raised finger.

“Because, Doctor Zeigler, I don’t have any clothes,” she explained patiently, “I have a bloodstained cat suit with a hole in it and my dear Lena is five inches shorter than me. Our wardrobes are not exactly…compatible.”

She gestured to herself as she finished her explanation. She was wearing a fluffy white bathrobe that would have swamped Tracer entirely, but on her lithe frame came down to just above her knees. Mercy narrowed her eyes, then nodded.

“I suppose I will go buy you something. Sizes?” she asked, tearing a piece of paper from a little legal pad beside the landline phone. Amélie strolled over to her and began listing them too quietly for Tracer to hear, giving the girl a teasing smile as she slid past her. Lena grumbled, and concentrated on her Szechuan chicken.

“Ja. Ja. Mhmm. Really? Mein Gott. Mhm. Well, I can manage this,” Mercy muttered, scribbling them down onto the paper, “Go eat your breakfast while I pick this up.”

“And shoes!” Amélie added, “Don’t forget shoes.”

“Ja, Ja…” Mercy waved the comment away as she headed for the door, slipping her pistol into the back of her coat as she did so. She paused in the doorway, turning back to fix the two of them with a stare.

“And you two…” she skewered them with a finger, “You’d better be sitting at this table when I get back, understand me? I will be gone ten minutes. If you end up in the bedroom, I will throw a bucket of water over you!”

Amélie chuckled, while Lena flushed an enduring scarlet.

“Oh good god,” Lena grumbled into her hands, “Alright, mum! Christ!”

 

The door slammed shut behind her, and they heard the sound of locks turning. Amélie chuckled again, and ran her hand through Lena’s hair.

“It’s cute,” she purred, “The way she’s all protective of you.”

Tracer grinned, “Yeah, she’s like that with everyone,” she said through a mouthful of rice.

“It makes me want to tell her,” Amélie continued, her voice suddenly throaty and sensual, “Who was seducing whom last night.”

Tracer gulped, barely managing to avoid choking on her food. She looked up at Amélie, her face red.

“You had better bloody not!”

“Non?” Amélie whispered, like a shark scenting blood, “You don’t want me to tell her that I simply tried to get some sleep, while her erstwhile comrade pressed her mouth to every inch of my helpless, naked body?”

“Oh my god that is _not_ what happened!” Tracer argued through her blush, “It was mutual! It was _totally_ mutual!”

Amélie chuckled and ruffled the girl’s hair as she sat down, grabbing herself a foil container of take-away as she did so.

“I suppose it was. Perhaps I’ll keep my silence this time.”

“You’d bloody better,” Tracer grumbled, trying vainly to smooth her hair into some approximation of neatness again.

Their conversation lapsed into companionable silence then as they ate. Amélie was not surprised to find herself starving, despite her enhancements. She generally didn’t need as much food as a normal person, and she tended to eat light anyway- though more from business than from a desire to maintain her figure. However it had been nearly a full day since her last meal, so she tucked in with relish- and a thought of gratitude towards the frosty Swiss doctor. A few minutes into their meal, she detected a note of tension in her partner, who sat with the remnants of her food before her, poking at her rice with the tip of a fork.

“Something bothering you, chérie?” she asked between bites. Tracer didn’t look up when she spoke.

“I hate this. I hate that they don’t trust you,” she said into her food. Amélie sighed.

“It’s to be expected. It could be a trick.”

“But it _isn’t!_ ” Tracer said, exasperation in her voice, “You and I both know that.”

 _Do we?_ Asked the little voice inside her head. Amélie shoved it back down.

“But they don’t,” she said instead, “They have to be careful. _You_ have to be careful too, Lena dear.”

Tracer sighed and leaned back in her chair, abandoning her attempt to look as if she were still eating.

“How am I supposed to be careful?” she asked, “I love you! That’s about as far from _careful_ as I can get.”

Amélie found herself smiling, as she always seemed to whenever Lena said those words.

“I think, chérie, that ‘careful’ does not come easily to you regardless.”

Tracer snorted and turned to fix Amélie with a fierce grin.

“Oh shut up,” she said firmly, and leaned over to kiss her hard on the mouth. Amélie rocked backwards, her hand coming up to cup the line of Lena’s cheek and jaw, while her other hand concentrated on stopping her from falling out of her chair. Kissing Lena seemed like it should be getting repetitive by now, but instead she found that she was enjoying each kiss more and more as she learned the details of her new lover’s lips. The way she moved, the way she brushed her mouth downward to capture Amélie’s lower lip between her teeth, the way that her tongue danced oh-so-teasingly across her-

The door slammed shut with _slightly_ more force than necessary. The two of them flew apart to sit bolt upright- like teenagers caught making out. Mercy stared at them, her eyebrows raised, her hands filled with plastic bags from a nearby clothes shop. Amélie was the first to recover her powers of speech.

“Welcome back, Doctor,” she said smoothly, “Lena and I were just talking.”

“Yes,” Mercy said knowingly, “I remember having those kinds of ‘talks’ with my partners too.”

Tracer put her face in her hands. Normally, being caught wouldn’t bother her so much, but for all the jokes, Mercy was quite a maternal figure. It was like being told off by your older sister, and for some reason she found it hideously embarrassing.

Ignoring her reaction, Mercy handed the bags over to Amélie with businesslike efficiency.

“Everything should be in there. Clothes, shoes, underwear. Go change,” she said, then when Tracer looked up, “ _You_ wait here, Ms. Oxton.”

Tracer grinned guiltily, and folded her hands on the table like a child who had been told off. Amélie smiled, leaned over, and gave Tracer a long, lingering kiss that almost dared Mercy to complain. She didn’t, instead letting out a small chuckle. Tracer’s head was still reeling from it when Amélie breezed past her into the bedroom. She tossed the bags onto the bed, then with the door still open, shrugged her shoulders and let the dressing gown slide down her bare back, leaving her as naked as she had been in Tracer’s bed the night before. Lena’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. Mercy looked away, rolling her eyes and swearing in German. Only then did Amélie lean back and push the door closed.

 

In the kitchen, the silence was palpable. Tracer sat there, looking flushed and guilty, apparently vastly interested in the pattern of her ceiling. Mercy sighed and started washing up.

“I think you might have met your match there, Lena,” she said, failing to repress her smile at seeing Tracer so flustered. It was alright, given that the girl couldn’t see her face from where she sat anyway.

“Me too,” Tracer agreed, shaking her head.

After a moment, Mercy’s smile fell away, and she took a deep breath.

“Look, Lena…” she began, but Tracer fixed her with a stare.

“Save it.” Her voice was low, and rough, “I don’t want to hear how it might be a trick, or she might be lying. You don’t know what I know, you don’t even know who she is. If I have to tell you and Winston, then so be it, but until then you can keep your opinions to yourself, alright?”

“Lena, don’t be like that,” Mercy sighed, “I just want you to be safe.”

“Safe?” Tracer tilted her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe herself, “What exactly is safe about my life, Doctor Zeigler? I’m an illegal agent of an underground group who now count as bloody terrorists fighting a secret war to help the whole bloody world, which apparently has its bloody head stuck up its bloody arse! _What part of that seems safe to you!?”_

Mercy stared at her, eyes wide. Then, very slowly, she forced herself to take a deep breath.

“Alright. If you want to play it like that, Lena, so be it. You’re an adult, and I can’t make your choices for you.”

“Too bloody right you can’t,” Tracer grumbled, fuming silently.

“Oh dear, are you two falling out over me?” asked Amélie, standing as before in the doorway to the bedroom. Tracer snapped her head up, jerking around to look at her in surprise. Sadly no longer naked, her lover was dressed now in dark slacks and a grey v-neck shirt that hung loosely on her narrow frame. Tracer could spy the lines of an undershirt or a sports bra beneath the shirt, and she’d tied her hair back as well. Combined with a pair of black slip-ons, she seemed like just another woman in the street.

 _Aside from the blue skin, and the drop-dead gorgeous face_ , she thought, _Seriously, she could be a model._

“I…tried to get things that would be an easy fit, in case the sizes came out wrong,” Mercy said weakly.

“I think…” Tracer mumbled, “You might have succeeded, doc.”

“Alright, get your shoes and your weapons, Lena, it’s time we got going. Winston will be waiting for us,” Mercy said, drying her hands off and moving over to Amélie slowly, “Now, do you mind if I frisk you for weapons, or are you going to take offense?”

Amélie shrugged eloquently, “You ‘ave my wrist mount, and-” she broke off suddenly and looked past her towards Tracer. Her eyes narrowed.

“You left my rifle in the plaza, didn’t you?” she asked, in the tones of someone who already knows the answer. Tracer paled slightly and held up her hands defensively.

“Well…erm…that is…I did kinda have a lot on my mind, love!” Tracer said, forcing a smile.

“See?” Amélie sighed, “I don’t even have my own clothes, Doctor.”

Mercy gave her a searching look, then shook her head.

“Good enough for me, then.”

Behind her, Tracer finished lacing up her battered sneakers, and slid a pair of pistols into her jacket’s harness. She bounced out of the chair to her feet, and stretched her arms high above her head.

“Ready!” she said brightly, and Amélie chuckled behind her.

“She’s like a dog going for a ride in the car,” she murmured, the comparison drawing a short laugh from Mercy despite her sour attitude, “Alright then, _allez!_ ”

 

* * *

 

A little less than twenty minutes later they were driving slowly through narrow streets in the outskirts of the city, down by the shoreline, where old homes gave way to warehouses and businesses. The spacious but small white car drove smoothly, always at a steady five miles an hour under the speed limit. From her spot in the backseat, Widowmaker sighed heavily.

“Really Doctor? I imagined you might drive this way, but a _Volvo?_ Not patronizing B.M.W? Or even Mercedes?” she asked, scorn only lightly touching her teasing voice.

“I’m Swiss, not German,” Mercy said primly, “And this is a rental. Besides, Volvo has an impressive safety record.”

“Are you expecting a chase? Or a crash?” Widowmaker asked, rolling her eyes. Mercy shrugged.

“With you in the car? Yes.” she said bluntly, “I’m hoping Talon hasn’t found us yet, but at this point I really doubt it. We’ll most likely be out of the city by lunchtime.”

Further conversation was forestalled by their arrival; Mercy taking a left then a right down into an alley barely big enough for the car itself. They came out beside a large, derelict looking warehouse with its doors held shut by rusted chains. Mercy stopped the car and killed the engine, pushing herself out quickly. Tracer and Widowmaker slid out of their respective seats, pausing only to help Mercy gather up her doctor’s bag, complete with the Caduceus Staff, which was tangled in the straps. She slung the bag over her left shoulder, adjusting the weight until it was comfortable, then nodded to herself.

Calmly she reached behind her, into her jacket, and drew her pistol- aiming it squarely at Widowmaker’s chest. Widowmaker eyed her, poker-faced. Tracer’s mouth dropped open.

“Now, this is all very unpleasant, but could you please put your hands up?” Mercy asked Widowmaker, before Tracer started shouting _sotto voce;_

“Mercy!? What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at!?” she blurted, struggling to avoid screaming at the blonde woman. Mercy gave her an almost pitying look.

“She’s a Talon agent, Lena, I’m taking _precautions,”_ she said, “Surely you don’t think I’m going to let her walk in with us uncovered and unheeded?”

“She’s not a bloody Talon agent anymore!” Tracer growled, “She left that part of her behind!”

“So she says.”

“I trust her, Mercy!”

“I don’t,” Mercy’s voice was blunt and unapologetic as she held the gun on Widowmaker, her aim never wavering, “And since she’s not _sleeping with me_ , I’d say _I_ have the clearer judgement.”

Tracer flushed in anger and balled up her fists- but before she could say something she’d regret, Amélie’s hand pressed down lightly upon her shoulder, squeezing a warning.

“It’s quite alright, chérie. I’d expect nothing less,” she said gently, putting up her hands and stepping forward, “I remand myself into your custody, Doctor.”

Tracer looked at her, her face twisted between anger and painful understanding. Mercy nodded briskly.

“Thank you, Amélie, I appreciate your cooperation,” she said, gesturing towards a side door with the pistol, “If we could get inside please?”

They entered via a side door which turned out merely to be disguised by the chains; in reality, a small keypad sat nearly out of view by one side of the door. Mercy tapped through a series of numbers, and the door clicked, allowing them entry. The inside of the warehouse was dark, the ceiling drifting upwards seemingly without end- it appeared that someone had blocked off or taped over any skylights or upper windows, giving the warehouse a shadowy, somewhat intimidating atmosphere.

Beyond abandoned shipping crates and cargo containers lay a circle of bright lights that formed a halo in the darkness; a humming generator powered a dozen or so box-lights that illuminated what appeared to be a makeshift lab. A bank of monitors sat atop a series of crates serving as tables; while other crates held tools, half-built projects, and in one case a bunch of bananas and a six-pack of peanut butter tubs. Beside the bank of computers sat an intimidatingly large weapon that Widowmaker recognized on sight. She shivered, trying not to remember her desperate attempts to avoid the electric discharge it produced in certain past encounters with its owner. Instead of a chair amidst all the chaos, however, was a large tire- probably from a construction vehicle or a heavy truck. On it sat an armored gorilla who, contrary to animal stereotypes, was wearing glasses and fiddling with a small force-field generator, which flickered with a strange blue light.

Before anyone could speak, a soft, synthetic, woman’s voice spoke up from a hidden speaker.

“ _Winston, your guests have arrived on schedule.”_

“Mmph. Thank you, Athena,” the gorilla grumbled, looking around for somewhere to put the flickering globe of force. He finally settled it on the edge of a crate, brushing several screwdrivers out of the way. That done, he turned and gave the trio a rather friendly wave.

 

“Good morning Doctor!” he said cheerily, nodding to them in turn, “Tracer. And our guest. Pull up a tire.”

Tracer stared at him, comprehension slowly dawning on her face. She glanced between him and Mercy.

“You told him,” she said angrily. Mercy shrugged, guiding Widowmaker with her pistol towards a mostly empty spot of floor, where she could stand in line of sight. Only then did she lower the weapon and answer.

“Of course I told him, Lena,” Mercy said softly, “I wasn’t going to walk her in here and surprise him. I called Winston last night.”

“And told me the whole story. Or at least what she knew of it,” Winston said, “Frankly, I was worried sick. I hate not being on the scene when these things happen.”

Tracer sighed and walked over to where Widowmaker stood, her hands on her hips. The motion put her opposite Winston and Mercy in a rather aggressive declaration of support. Winston snorted out something that might have been a laugh. Before she could speak though, he raised one huge finger.

“Before we start arguing, I have some news for you,” he said in his rumbling basso, “First, there was some excitement last night. Talon appear to have gone critical.”

Widowmaker, Tracer, and Mercy all stared. He grinned expressively.

“There were reports of a shootout last night across town, by the riverside,” he continued, raising an eyebrow at Widowmaker. She nodded easily.

“That’s where the staging area is,” she explained, “Sounds like a leadership struggle.”

“That’s what I assume,” Winston said, “Perhaps they’re worried that Widowmaker’s apparent treachery goes deeper than just her. Or of course, this is the second stage of her plan- faking all this so that we drop our guard.”

“Winston!” Tracer cried, exasperation in her voice, “Not you too!”

“I’m sorry, Tracer,” he rumbled, “But it _is_ very convenient.”

“We both got shot; what part of that is bloody convenient?” Tracer asked, balling her fists once more.

“True,” Winston said, sobering slightly, “But still. We have to be very careful, Tracer. We’re not what we used to be. Not _who_ we used to be.”

From beside her, Widowmaker smiled slightly and stepped forward.

“I know what you mean.”

Tracer’s eyes widened, and she took a hold of Widowmaker’s arm, holding her by the sleeve.

“Amélie, you don’t have to-”

“But I do, Lena,” she said softly, shaking her head, “They won’t trust me any other way.”

“Hmm? You have some way of making us trust you?” Winston asked, by all appearances genuinely interested. Mercy rolled her eyes. Imagination and curiosity might be Winston’s virtues, but as someone who had sewed him back together after the fiftieth explosion or so, she was well aware they were also his vices. Widowmaker nodded slowly.

“I do,” she cocked her head, “You don’t recognize me, do you? Or you, Doctor Zeigler?”

The two of them examined her, straining to match her face to a memory. First one, then the other, shook their heads. Widowmaker chuckled.

“I don’t blame you. The last time we met was nearly…well, years ago,” she mused, “And you, Winston, I only ever met once.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Mercy snapped, “I think I’d remember meeting an amoral Talon mercenary with blue skin at some point in my past, no matter _how_ old Lena thinks I am!”

Widowmaker chuckled again, but there was no humor in it. She bit her lip, weighing the risks. Tracer held her breath, her hand still on her arm, a silent, reassuring presence beside her.

_Time to throw the dice. They always said the truth would set you free._

 

“My real name is certainly not Widowmaker, as you know. The names given to me; first by my mother and then by my husband, are considerably more precious to me.”

She dipped her head and chest in what could have been a little mocking bow.

“My name, my _real_ name…is Amélie Lacroix, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

They stared. Tracer could almost see the search going on behind their eyes.

Lacroix…Lacroix…

Mercy reached realization first. Her eyes turned as wide and as white as china saucers. Her mouth moved silently, until with a hoarse whisper she spat;

“M-Mein Gott. It…it can’t be!”

Winston looked from her to Amélie, his heavy brows furrowed.

“Who is ‘Amélie Lacroix’?” he asked, “The surname sounds familiar, but-”

Apparently recognizing the question, or simply keyed to his voice, Athena answered in a smooth alto.

“Amélie Lacroix; Age 26, Deceased.”

Everyone turned to stare at the bank of monitors as files popped up; a series of photographs collated from social media, parties, private collections; newspaper clippings detailing a disappearance, a murder, and an investigation; an Overwatch agent file on one Gerard Lacroix- it all poured out onto the screens in a dizzying rush as Athena continued.

“Married to Gerard Lacroix: Overwatch Agent, Head of Anti-Talon Division, Age 32, deceased,” the smooth robotic voice said without inflection, “Gerard Lacroix was assassinated in his sleep by unknown assailants- presumed to be Talon. His wife Amélie disappeared the same night, and a broken window was discovered on the second story of their house. A police investigation was held but no trace of her was ever found. An Overwatch investigation was also unsuccessful. She was declared dead four years later.”

The silence as Athena’s speech came to a halt was as cold and as quiet as the grave.

Amélie stood where she was, her eyes closed, her head bowed. Tracer had moved closer to her, and now turned to pull her into the circle of her arms.

She had intended to take this stoically.

She had intended to stand tall and dare Overwatch to judge her.

But seeing her life spread out across those screens, hearing her entire life summed up in a hundred words, was all too much for her. Memories rose, clawing at her, ripping at her composure. She fought back tears, and pressed her face harder into Lena’s shoulder- once more using her lover’s scent as an anchor to the here and now.

Much to her surprise, when she had regained control of herself and stepped back from Lena’s embrace, the two Overwatch agents were still staring at her, their faces clouded with more emotions than she could count. Mercy could be catching flies, her mouth was open so wide; while Winston’s expressive face was that of a child hearing a sad story- he looked as if he might burst into tears. He swallowed roughly and spoke.

“Athena. Run…run facial recognition,” he said gruffly, almost apologetically, taking off his glasses so that he could run a hand across his face.

There was a brief ghost of light that slid over Amélie’s form, then a beeping sound.

“Calculating…” said the smooth, feminine voice of the computer, “Facial Recognition Complete. Elements of the subject’s appearance such as skin tone do not match and seem to indicate severe cardio and neuro-vascular alterations. However, standard recognition patterns suggest that the subject _is_ Amélie Lacroix. Correlation is ninety-six percent, moving to ninety-eight percent when accounting for age.”

Winston rumbled something deep in his chest. Mercy stepped forward, swallowing roughly.

“W-What…what happened to you, Amélie?” she asked, “How did you become…this?”

Amélie shook her head, keeping one hand on the small of Tracer’s back, unwilling to give up the comfort of her physical presence.

“They took me. Talon took me. A few days before... _before._  They drugged me, broke me, and changed me. Then they brought me back. The next night…I,” she broke off, unable to speak for a moment, “I tried not to, I really did, I fought so ‘ard, but the conditioning…” she trailed off, her voice wrought with self-loathing.

Tracer shifted herself closer, pressing the side of her body against her. Mercy’s face twisted up, but no longer in distaste. She grimaced in understanding, in sadness, and in fear.

“You…you completed your mission,” she said softly, “Mein Gott, I’m so sorry.”

Amélie nodded. Her eyes were cold and hard, as if daring those assembled to judge her, to put themselves in her place.

“From then…why should I have bothered fighting it? There was nothing left for me. I killed my husband, my love, my life. Why bother fighting?” Amélie said, as if asking bitter questions that had no answers, “The conditioning was all that mattered. They took me in, finished my programming, and let me loose on the world.”

 

Tracer parted from her with a sigh and stepped forward. Amélie turned to look at her, only to receive a small, knowing smile. Tracer took up the story without a second glance.

“And then I met ‘er, when Mondatta was killed, and then later at the museum,” she said, her voice softening at the mention of the Omnic leader. Amélie winced- she’d suspected that the girl’s ideology would run in much the same direction as _that_ particular target. After all, Tracer hadn’t been assigned to guard him, which meant she must have been at the rally by choice, one young girl among hundreds.

“But then we met in Gibraltar.” Tracer’s voice was hesitant as she tried to put wordless concepts into words, “And…I recognized her. She knew my name, my _actual_ name, but she never told Talon,” she said, over Winston’s grunt of surprise at _that_ particular revelation, “And we fought, and she begged me, with my gun to her head, to kill her.”

Behind her, Amélie stiffened, remembering the helpless, hopeless feeling that had consumed her, that had made her push back the programming for the time it took to beg for death.

“She said that I was the only one who could help her,” Tracer continued, “But only with a bullet. Well, I believe half of that. She _needs_ me. And I need her.” Those last words were said through the beginnings of a blush, and Amélie couldn’t keep the smile from her face, despite the solemn circumstances. Mercy, despite herself, was nodding slowly. Amélie reached up to her own face, running her fingers down her cheek.

“They slowed my heart, and they took my emotions away, my memories away, and my compassion away. But they could only bury them in programming. They couldn’t destroy them,” she said slowly, but with increasing speed, “They made it so that I only ever felt alive when I killed for them, but then Lena…she opened my eyes. She…she kissed me. And told me that it wasn’t my fault. That I didn’t have to be a monster.”

Her voice rose in pitch and in volume as she looked up suddenly, staring at all three of them, squaring her shoulders as if expecting a fight, as if preparing to move a great weight, or shoulder a burden.

“And she said that she would help me. That _you_ would help me,” she changed her tone, adding a cheery, sarcastic inflection that was meant to imitate Tracer, “’Because we’re Overwatch. That’s what we do.’”

In the silence that followed her words, Winston was already nodding to himself; Mercy looked as if she might be on the verge of tears; and Lena was looking at her with…with so much life and love and fear and joy in her expression that Amélie went to her without a second thought. She pulled the slender girl into a hug and held her close, brushing a hand back and forth through her messy hair. She breathed the scent of her deeply, memorizing it.

_How, in such short a time, had the circle of Lena’s arms become her home?_

Everyone was so deep in thought, there in the silence, that they were caught entirely by surprise.

 

* * *

 

 _“Winston, I am detecting an electrical surg-_ ” Athena’s voice began, then cut out suddenly.

So did all the lights- not just the big box lights scattered around in a circle, but also the running lights of the computer banks, the monitors, and the screens- they all went black, swathing the warehouse in darkness. Amélie felt Tracer stiffen in her arms. Mercy was the first to speak, a lone voice in the black.

“A…An EMP?” she asked, her voice cool and professional to hide her fear.

In the darkness, Winston’s body was a shadowed titan as he turned and reared up at Amélie, his balled fists slamming into his chest. Amélie raised her hands, going pale. She did _not_ want to fight Winston. It would be like being violently disassembled by an angry child.

“I didn’t-” she began, at the same time as Tracer blurted; “She didn’t-”

“Weapons!” Mercy barked, and Amélie caught the glimmer of her pistol in one hand, scanning the darkness, “I hear movement…” she murmured, quieter. Tracer stepped lightly away, drawing her pistols.

From the large, corrugated metal door that marked the main entrance to the abandoned warehouse, smoke began to pour. It was only visibly as a shadow within the light creeping in from beneath the imperfect fit of the metal frame, but even so, it writhed unnaturally, sliding down and up and around in patterns no natural smoke would ever take. When Mercy spoke again, her voice had a quiet, hopeless edge to it; filled with pain, fear and regret.

“Reaper,” she whispered, and the world went mad.

 

The smaller side doors blew in with the pop-bang of shaped charges, silhouetting the dark, armored forms of Talon soldiers. That proved to be a dangerous entry, as the first two silhouettes reeled backwards from Mercy and Tracer’s pistols- the heavy bark of Mercy’s weapon undercut by the chattering snarl of Tracer’s automatics.

Tracer pushed Amélie aside, shoving her behind a crate between shots, and continued picking off their attackers, who poured into the warehouse from every direction. Mercy threw her bag into cover and followed it with a combat roll that was all the more impressive for the ease with which she performed it, while Amelie looked around her in shock.

_To have so many men here…Talon must have called in damn near every asset in the country!_

The gunfire and shouting seemed to cease for an instant as Winston reared up again, slamming out a series of booming thuds across his armored chest, drawing in a huge lungful of air and letting out the kind of roar Amélie had only heard in a certain movie, circa 1933. The roar sent dust spiraling up from every surface nearby, rattling the tools and assorted machinery around him. The sheer power of it thrummed through Amélie’s chest like a physical pressure, and it stunned the Talon soldiers into motionless for a handful of seconds.

“What are you waiting for, morons!? Kill them!” Reaper’s voice was a whining buzz-saw of a growl as his body formed, and he raised those signature black shotguns as he spoke, sending a booming pair of answers to that roar echoing through the warehouse. Winston held up one arm to shield his face, reached down to grab the immense Tesla Cannon lying nearby, and leapt towards the nearest knot of enemies. Bright, electrical light burned out from the tip of the weapon, nearly blinding Amélie in contrast to the darkness.

Tracer darted from side to side, emptying her weapons, then taking shelter behind a crate to reload. Amélie saw a Talon soldier flanking her, coming up on a route that would take him past her hiding place to gain a clear shot of her lover. She waited, holding her breath, turning her face away- her dark clothes and blue skin lending themselves to concealment. He slid past her, never noticing. Tracer spun as she saw him, eyes wide, but her pistols still empty. Amélie stepped out of nowhere and placed a hand firmly atop his helmet. He made a startled noise, and she tugged the helmet to her left with a grunt.

Then she planted five inches of kitchen knife into the man’s neck, and sawed messily across.

Tracer stared in horror as the man jerked and kicked, his blood black as it poured across his armor. Only a moment later, Amélie let him drop, the knife’s handle sticking out of his neck like a gruesome pendant, her hands neatly removing his rifle from his grip as he fell.

Tracer was staring at her, halfway to standing, her face caught between shock and gratitude.

“You told Mercy you didn’t ‘ave any weapons!” she blurted finally.

 “No I didn’t,” Amélie insisted smoothly, tugging the slender girl back down into cover, “I distracted her by talking about my rifle, then I said I didn’t own clothes. At no point-”

“You lied to her!”

“Only by omission!” Amélie insisted, raising the rifle and firing off a chattering burst at a newcomer, “I’m sorry, chérie, but I am what I am. These are the only skills I have. I wish it were otherwise.”

“I know, I know,” Tracer mumbled, finishing her reload with skilled, nimble fingers, “It’s not…I love you, Amélie. Just…it’s hard, seeing you forced to do this.”

“Ah, chérie,” Amélie chuckled, leaning over to kiss her swiftly, “You’re sweet. It’s not any easier to see _you_ in battle either-” she broke off, lifting her rifle to suppress two Talon soldiers trying to escape Winston’s advance. She ducked as return fire whip-cracked past her head, “Perhaps this isn’t really the time for this conversation, Lena darling.”

“Right-o,” Tracer said, grinning despite herself, “Be right back, love!”

And with that, she rolled smoothly out of cover, zipping out into the confused swirl of the melee, never quite where anyone was aiming. Amélie snorted in amusement, and started picking targets. It was nice, fighting without relying on the programming, as paradoxical as that sounded. She felt…not alive, but awake- vital, human, _whole._

She spotted Mercy behind a cargo container, pinned down by Reaper’s advancing form, the booming of his weapons a constant, hammering rhythm. Mercy flinched away as buckshot pinged through the thin metal of her cover, leaving a trio of tiny holes. Amélie frowned, her brows furrowing in concentration as she lined up her shot. It would have to be perfect.

 _Wait until he thinks he’s won,_ she told herself, _Until the moment of the kill._

Reaper was ten feet from Mercy’s position now- eight feet, five feet, three feet! He whirled around the corner, weapons raised towards the doctor, and Amélie blew him to pieces. She opened up on him in a series of devastating bursts that shredded his body, hammering him back and downwards like a rag-doll. Each bullet that hit him sent a burst of smoke and blood from his body, until it seemed that he could no longer be called human- his form dissolving into a puddle of smoke. She grinned.

That puddle of smoke rose upwards into a human shape, like an ancient specter brought to life.

It had no face, and therefore no eyes, but Amélie could _feel_ Reaper’s gaze upon her. She shuddered, and her smile fell away.

The ghost-like form blurred towards her in a rush. She started firing, blowing holes through the insubstantial form, sending up spinning contrails of dark smoke but achieving no real harm. She stepped back as she fired, trying to keep her distance from him, but he was hellishly fast. She stopped firing, raising her aim to where the man’s face would be, if he were truly a man.

_Alright then, we’ll play the game again. Une balle, un mort._

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Her eyes were just beginning to widen as Reaper’s arm formed out of the mist and swatted the empty rifle aside, slamming it from her hands as if it had been a child’s toy. She stumbled backwards, weaponless, throwing a kick at him that swirled through his body uselessly. It felt like she was kicking through water. He coalesced out of the fog into his human form, one hand already bringing his weapon up to bear. The shotgun swept over her, and she stared down the barrel. It looked so much bigger from where she stood, almost comically large, as if staring down a tunnel at an oncoming train.

He paused, and for a moment she saw the line of his body tense, as if he were debating with himself.

She saw the tension disappear. She realized, with a start, that she had just seen him decide to kill her.

_What a strange thing to witness._

He raised the gun to her head. She nodded, very slightly. At least it would be quick.

 

She saw again, that breathtakingly lovely face in her memories, wide eyes begging her for answers.

_Why!? Why would you do this!?_

She saw her lover, curled up against her side. She saw her face twisted in ecstasy, saw her moaning her name, felt the soft brush of her lips, and the warm acceptance of her arms. Then the moment passed.

She breathed a word, a name.

“Lena…” she began, like a prayer.

Reaper pulled the trigger.

 

* * *

 

She saw light, and for a moment she was giddy with laughter. Heaven, really? For a soul like hers?

But this light was sharp and blue, and not at all suited to heavenly clouds or pearly gates.

She lifted her head. That confirmed the fact that she was not dead, at least. Presumably dead people were not in as much pain as she was. She shook her head to clear it and looked around. Reaper was back in his smoky form, desperately dodging strikes from Winston. That made sense, in a way.

She looked down at herself. She appeared to be unharmed, aside from a rather spectacular bruise she was sure was forming on the back of her head. That _didn’t_ make sense.

She scanned the room, her eyes fixing suddenly on Tracer’s limp form, face down beside a barrel that held a heavy dent in it. She made a choked, shocked sound and hauled herself to her feet, rushing over to her. Her fingers moved quickly, deftly over the girl’s body. No blood, no bullet holes, no buckshot. She seemed okay, aside from her run-in with the barrel. While she worked, her mind put together the sequence of events. Lena must have run into her, blinking almost precisely on top of her and shoving her aside. The momentum carried her this way and into the barrel. She patted the girl’s shoulder.

“Lena? Lena?” she called, trying to wake her, “Come, chérie, we must be going!”

Her heart started beating again as Lena raised her head, propping herself up slowly. Her voice was weak and strained as she ran a hand through her hair, but it was there. She rolled over slowly.

“Oh bloody hell, my aching bloody…” she trailed off, her voice going ghostly quiet, “Oh god.”

 

Though her body bore no marks, no wounds, and no blood, the white metal and blue light of the Chronal Accelerator was marred by a dozen little holes, which spat sparks and smoke in a frantic chorus. Amélie’s heart started hammering in her throat.

“Lena?” she said, dumbly. Lena’s face was twisting rapidly into a horrified mask, distorting almost grotesquely.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” her voice rose into a shout that rapidly became a shriek, “ _WINSTON!!!”_

Winston turned, and saw what had happened in an instant. He abandoned his pursuit, dropping his weapon with a thump and shifting into a deceptively fast, knuckling run that ate up the ground between them. But the warehouse was large, and he was still so far away.

He would be there in seconds, when moments mattered.

Amélie brushed aside metal shavings from the top of the little harness and spoke quickly.

“Lena, talk to me,” she said, “How do we fix this?”

Lena’s hands got in her way as she scrabbled at the device, her hands shaking frantically. Amélie looked up into her face and saw utter _terror_ in the girl’s eyes. Not fear, which was a constant companion to those in trades like the one they shared. Not simple fear that made it hard to think, that made fingers clumsy and speech slurred. Terror. Terror that sparked a horrible remembrance in Amélie’s chest. She saw her own expression there in Lena’s horrified visage, and she could no longer catch her breath.

The circling light atop Lena’s chest flickered, then died.

“No!” Amélie hissed, “ _No!”_

Her hands closed on Lena’s, as if the simple motion would anchor her to the present. For a brief moment, she felt the warmth and softness of her lover’s skin, a balm to her senses.

Then she felt a weakening. A fading of that wonderful sensation. She looked up, and when she saw Lena’s face, it was as if she were staring at an old photograph left out in the sun. She looked…bleached. Insubstantial. Ghostly.

“No, Lena, please, I love you, don’t go, I’m begging you,” Amélie said frantically, unaware she was speaking at all.

Lena’s eyes focused on hers, but slowly, as if from a long way away. Her face was pale, though whether from terror or whatever was happening to her, she no longer knew.

“Not again…” she whispered, though her mouth moved expressively, as if she were shouting.

 

I

                don’t want

                                                to disappear

                                                                                again…


	6. ... (End of Part 1)

.moor a fo srenroc ytsud eht llif ot tuo gnidaerpS

 

,htaerb elgnis a ekiL

.eman a fo repsihw a ekiL

.tsohg a ekiL

 

…gnidils

…gnippirt

…gnillaF

 

 

.wrong terribly gone has something think I

Where am I?

I am where?

 

…Amélie…

 

* * *

 

"Run! Winston we have to go!" Mercy cried, tugging at one tree-trunk shaped arm to no avail. Winston bawled, tears blurring his vision.

" _I have to help her!_ " he roared, even as he stumbled back from the empty patch of ground that once held his team-mate. His friend. His responsibility.

"You can't help her! Talon are all over us!" Mercy insisted, over the blaring sound of gunfire, "We have to run!"

"Amélie!" Winston grunted, "Where's Amélie!?" 

"I don't see her!" 

"We can't leave them both!"

"Winston! Reaper's coming!"

"Damn it!  _DAMN IT!_ " Winston roared, turning and gathering up the slender blonde in his arms, folding her into a crushing hug. 

Bullets sparked up from his armor as he ran for the wide, corrugated iron door at the end of the warehouse.

It barely slowed him as he barreled through it to the sound of shearing metal. 

"We'll get her back Winston, I swear!" Mercy said into his chest, her voice taut with rage and sorrow, "We'll get them both back!"

Winston rumbled his agreement as he ran, and held her closer.

With her pulled into his chest like that, they wouldn't be able to see each others' tears.

 

* * *

 

 

"Define 'missing' for me." Reaper's voice was like a shortening fuse. The Talon soldier in front of him took a half step back.

"W-Winston and the medic escaped, we have agents in pursuit. But there's no sign of Tracer or Widowmaker anywhere, sir," he said, stammering.

Reaper snarled and kicked a barrel into the wall with little apparent effort. The clanging boom it made when it hit the wall caused the soldier to flinch away again.

"I hit one of them. Tracer, the girl." Reaper considered, "Perhaps she's having a little temporal difficulty. But Widowmaker..."

A buzzing sound broke his line of thought. He waved the soldier away, who slumped in obvious relief and hurried off, while withdrawing a slender black phone from his inside pocket. He answered.

"Reaper."

"-This is intolerable, Reaper! Our agreement does not contain allowances for you to mobilize such force so openly! You've called in every damn agent across three countries! And for what?"

"Your 'agreement' isn't worth the paper we didn't write it on,  _Marcus,_ and I'll use whatever means I see fit to deal with Overwatch. We've bagged one of them today, and I have hopes for at least two more once you stop distracting me with your pointless whining."

"You...you got one of them?" the man's voice was stunned, "W-Who?"

"Tracer. Not confirmed, but I hit her accelerator. She vanished. Hopefully she stays that way."

"That's excellent news, but really, it doesn't excuse this lack of caution!" the man's voice firmed up, "Talon is not your personal army, Reaper, Talon is-"

"Talon," Reaper cut the man off effortlessly, "Is whatever I tell it to be, Marcus. If Talon is supposed to be a claw..."

He snorted out a humorless laugh,

"If Talon is a claw, I'm going to cut Overwatch's throat with it."

 

* * *

 

[End of Part 1]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Welcome to the End of Part One- "Alive"
> 
> We'll be taking a short break before we begin Part Two - "Adrift"  
> I'm thinking it'll stay in the same actual work, instead of splitting it up.
> 
> Chapter Notes:  
> 1) While Reaper is a mercenary, he's teamed up with Talon and is basically taking it over from within, because fuck overwatch.  
> 2) 'Marcus' is the current head of Talon  
> 3) If some things like Chapter '...' appear out of order, this is simply temporal instability, and is intended. Please standby!  
> 4) Why yes, I do enjoy torturing you all by making Tracer vanish.
> 
> Views and kudos are loved, comments are ADORED, and as always; Thank you for reading!  
> For commissions, email Hiroshi_Nakano@hotmail.co.uk  
> For feeding me ramen, see https://digitaltipjar.com/SatsunonSavior/


	7. Adrift

 

_ Part Two: Adrift _

 

_Two weeks later,_

_Girona, Spain_

 

11:58pm- That was what the clock said.

It was a small digital clock with a black plastic case- the kind you could find in hotels all the way from Berlin to Beijing, though currently it occupied a basement of an old house in Girona. It sat above a heavy block of silvered metal that hummed on a frequency not particularly comfortable to the ears. Winston stood well back, staring at the clock intently. His focus was such that he didn’t hear the woman behind him until she’d spoken for the third time.

“Winston? What on earth are you doing?” Mercy asked, her voice tired and weary.

“Oh, hello doctor, still up?” he replied, his gaze not moving from the clock.

“Unfortunately,” she murmured, in a tone that suggested that someone had been clattering around and keeping her that way, “Here.”

She pushed a thermos of coffee into his hand. She had one of her own in the other, and she swigged from it liberally, letting out a tired sigh.

“Thank you, doctor,” he said, though he made no move to drink from it, instead fixated upon the clock and the strange device. He was silent until Mercy lost her patience almost a minute later.

“So what _are_ you doing?” she sighed, tilting her head to look past him at the strange machinery.

“Look at the clock,” he said, a layer of excitement creeping into his voice. She did.

“…wow Winston, it tells the time, I _am_ impressed,” she said, somewhat crankily. He snorted.

“No, doctor, in fact it _doesn’t_ tell the time!” he turned his head, “Athena?”

“The current time is 12:27pm.” Athena’s synthetic voice was as calm as ever, but Mercy fancied she could hear a note of excitement lingering somewhere deep inside the smooth cadence.

“See, doctor!?” Winston said excitedly. She shook her head.

“So you’ve got a _broken_ clock.”

“Not broken, Angela, _frozen._ ” Winston grinned, an expressive gesture on his hominid face, “It’s a Chronal Stabilizer!”

Mercy’s mouth dropped open.

“You did it!?” she gasped, “You actually did it!?”

“I _hope_ so.” Winston’s smile faltered, “This is preliminary testing, but we’ll know soon if-”

 

The clock flickered.

 _12:28pm._ The little red lines across its display panel shifted to the current time with a crackling pop of static. Winston sighed, the exhalation going on for several seconds until he seemed practically deflated. Behind him, Mercy drank another swallow of her coffee.

“Ah well, we held for nearly thirty minutes. That might be enough time to affect repairs…now if I-”

The clock flickered again, and this time the static pop was louder, almost painful to their ears.

 _12:44pm,_ the little clock read. Winston’s eyebrows rose.

“That…shouldn’t happen.” he grumbled cautiously.

No sooner had he said it than the clock flickered again, changing twice before settling on _10:48pm._

“…Oh dear.” Winston’s fingers stroked idly across his chin, “The stabilizing element has come loose. I think the result would be a series of sudden Chronal Stabilizations to reaffirm the current timeline…sort of like twanging a rubber-band.”

“Winston!” Mercy’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. Moments later her hands were tugging him backwards- or at least trying to. No one really moved Winston unless he wanted them to.

“What- _Oh!”_ he gasped. The clock was flickering constantly now, showing a dizzying mixture of times that varied from morning til night, the static crackling in little bursts around it like a halo, the stink of sudden ozone filling their nostrils. Winston turned, dropping the thermos and wrapping his arms around Mercy’s slender frame, engulfing her in a crushing hug.

There was a quiet but enthusiastic sounding explosion. Something hit him on the back of the head, and he grunted in sudden pain. And then it was over. He leaned down with one long arm and lifted the smoking remnants of the cheap digital clock. It crumbled to thick, ashy looking dust that stained the fur of his fingertips.

“Hmph. Back to the drawing board, I guess.”

“Yes I think so,” Mercy muttered, stepping out of the circle of his arms, “Seeing as I don’t want to strap Lena to _that_ anytime soon.”

Winston rumbled his agreement.

“If only I had a decent power core. Something with decent shielding. I _did_ have a backup generator for Tracer’s harness, once upon a time.”

“You did?” Mercy asked, cocking her head, “What happened to it?”

“Hmmmm, I don’t know,” Winston grumbled, “I think it got lost in the disbanding. We got picked over by the vultures, remember?”

“I remember,” Mercy almost growled, “I still have nightmares about those corporate drones picking over my lab, not knowing what the hell they were going to do with what they were taking and not being able to stop them.”

They stood in companionable silence then, united in the sharing of that painful memory.

 

Suddenly, Mercy’s face lit up and she clicked her fingers in realization.

“Winston!” she said excitedly, “Next question; if _you’re_ not doing chronal research, who is?”

“That’s a good…I mean…I don’t know!” Winston’s voice held a note of hope, “Athena, are there any corporations whose mandate includes research into those areas?”

“Searching.” Athena hummed, “Search complete; no corporation has a public division engaged in chronal research. However, several have alternative power generation or battery creation divisions that would lend themselves to such an endeavor. Furthermore, the remains of the Swiss Lab, which contained the last recorded presence of your chronal research, were bought as a lot by Vishkar Industries energy division.”

“Vishkar Industries?” Mercy said, “I don’t remember…aren’t they the Indian hard-light developers?”

Winston nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes…and they don’t have the best reputation either. Very…’one track mind’.”

“How one track are we talking?” Mercy asked.

“They’re linked to blackmail, extortion, corruption, even a few bombings.” Winston said easily, “Much like most other big corporations these days.”

Mercy let out a bitter little laugh.

“Vishkar Industries, huh?” she mused, “Think they’ll deal with us?”

“I’ll see what I can dig up on them,” Winston rumbled, “Give us an angle we can work with.”

“You never know,” Mercy said, “Maybe we can just ask politely?”

Winston snorted. “That would be nice.”

“Yes well, it has to happen someday, right?”

“Hmph. I’ll believe it when I see it…” Winston trailed off, looking down at Mercy’s face, at the tired bags beneath her eyes, “Angela, you ought to get some rest.”

“Wow, I must look bad,” she chuckled.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you only call me Angela when I look like _scheisse._ ”

Winston rumbled out another laugh, waving one hand.

“You don’t, it’s just…we’re all tired.”

“You as well, Winston. Don’t stay up too late, alright? You look dead on your feet.”

“Is that your medical opinion, doctor?” Winston teased. Mercy poked his chest with a finger.

“That’s my opinion as your friend. If I was your doctor, I’d put sleeping pills in your peanut butter.”

Winston put his hand to his heart, as if wounded. Mercy threw up her hands.

“Fine, fine! I’m not going to force you!” she said, only for Athena’s voice to interrupt.

“Please insist, Doctor Zeigler. Winston has been sleeping three-point-six less hours than his required amount over the past two weeks-”

“Athena!” Winston groaned, “I told you to stop monitoring my vitals!”

He shuffled over to a table, picking up a brightly colored plastic tub. This time Athena’s voice was more urgent.

“Winston! That comestible product will take you over your assigned calorie intake for today-”

“Damn it Athena! I’ll format you, just see if I don’t!”

Mercy chuckled from her spot in the doorway. She turned to leave, but paused, one hand on the doorframe. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned back.

“Before I go,” she murmured softly, “Is there any news?”

“News?” Winston asked, trying to read his old friend’s face.

“About her…about Amélie.”

“Ah.” His voice was heavy, rough. “No. I still haven’t found her. I have people looking.”

“But you’ve seen the signs?”

“Yes.” Monosyllables seemed to be all Winston was willing to wager on the missing woman.

“I hope we can get Lena back soon. She needs her. Without her…” she trailed off, shaking her head, “All this worrying isn’t getting me anywhere. Good night, Winston.”

“Good night, Angela.”

 

In the quiet absence of others, Winston ran a hand down his face slowly.

“Winston, your heart-rate-”

The _look_ he gave the computer silenced Athena’s voice. He knuckled over to it, holding one hand above the screen. He really needed to stop brooding over this. It wasn’t as if reading the news could help. One chubby finger tapped down on his minimized tabs. The spread of information that flew up to cover the screen was as unchanging as it was disheartening.

 

_Three dead in Paris Shooting_

_High-Powered Rifle used in daylight assassinations_

_Four killed in Moscow Massacre_

_Wave of Terror as the Widow strikes again_

_Police seem powerless to prevent…_

_Terrorist connections plague shooting victims_

 

Lost in thought, he began to read.

 

* * *

 

_Shanghai, China_

_Choosing your position was the most important thing- everyone forgot that. The rifle you used was important, true, but in the field of marksmanship, just like in business, location really was everything._

Amélie brushed loose metal slivers and dirt from the position she’d chosen, smoothing down the space she’d decided to shoot from. The wind blew a harsh gust that brought with it more tiny irritants, blowing so hard that for a moment she was forced to brace herself against it. When it had passed, she looked down at her firing spot and shook her head.

_When you can’t get a decent position, you have to use a brace or a rest for the rifle, or use a bipod._

Lacking a bipod, she would have to improvise a brace. But first the rifle. Her fingers assembled the stripped down weapon quickly, nimble fingers making the complex task seem almost child’s play. She hadn’t full disassembled it; just enough to fit it into a bag. The scope slotted into place with a click and she checked to make sure it was held steady. That done, she reached behind her and tugged at her foot. Her boot came free with a sudden motion that threatened her balance, but she recovered and folded the long faux-leather shoe up, until the barrel of her newly-assembled rifle could sit comfortably on the rubber sole. She allowed herself a grim smile at the improvisation.

_Next would be breathing. Slow, steady and even._

She checked hers- perfect, as always. She supposed she should thank Talon for that. She’d just have to deliver her thanks personally.

_Next; distance to target, elevation and windage._

She ran through her calculations. Roughly eight hundred and thirty meters to target. Well within her rifles range, but not an easy shot. High wind coming in, but from behind her, where it wouldn’t affect the shot, barring an unexpected shift that at this range would send her shot arcing god knows where. Her fingers twisted the little knob at the side of her scope.

 _Click, click, click, click-_ until it settled on eight-thirty. She left the windage drum alone.

She raised the rifle to her shoulder and looked down the sights. No movement, no target. To pass the time, she closed her eyes and took a few slow breaths, then opened them again. Her point of aim had drifted, so she corrected and performed the exercise again. Another drift, another repetition, and so on- until her cold, amber eyes slid open, and her crosshairs hovered right over where her target would shortly be.

Wind fluttered and gusted behind her, and she cursed, glad that she’d braided her hair down and worn a hood. It might be a particularly good elevation to shoot from, but she could do without all this wind.

_Well, if you want to shoot into a high-rise, you either need this, or a really big ladder._

She was atop a crane- a huge tower crane that rose as high as the high-rise buildings around her, just another construction in the bustling metropolis of Shanghai. The buildings around her all bore business names, any one of which could have literally buried her in armed security had they known about her. They didn’t. But one of them was about to learn.

She began to run through her calculations again, since she had the time to spare. Her eyes closed, better to work through the somewhat arduous process of distance and elevation. She was only going to get one shot if she planned to make it out before she was surrounded. She _would_ take two though.

If that was what it took.

 

A voice interrupted her train of thought, forcing her eyes open.

“You always did look beautiful when you were concentrating.” said a voice in her native French.

She stiffened, then shook her head, ignoring the voice entirely, fiddling with her sights.

“Killing people like this…it doesn’t suit you, you know.” the voice said, disapprovingly.

She growled and began to do unnecessary calculations, muttering them under her breath as if it would keep the voice away.

“Really?” the voice chuckled, letting out a laugh in a smooth tenor that stirred a dozen painful memories, made all the worse for their happy content, “What’s next? Putting your hands over your ears and shouting ‘I can’t hear you’?”

She gritted her teeth, focusing her sight through the scope. No movement. No excuses or distractions left.

“You’re not here. Shut up.” she said from between clenched teeth.

“Telling me to shut up is irrelevant if I’m not here, chérie.”

“You’re an auditory hallucination,” Amélie insisted, “I’m just talking to myself.”

“That’s not a good sign,” the man murmured, and for a moment she thought she felt the heat of his breath across her ear, “Maybe you need some sleep.”

“I don’t need medical advice from a hallucination!” she spat, willing her target to make an early appearance.

There was a long silence. For a moment, she almost thought that he’d gone. But-

“Then how about from your husband, chérie?” Gerard’s voice said softly, with the same care and concern that he always had. It wasn’t as if she knew the voice, or that he had always cared for her. Her memories lay swathed in shadow, allowing her only to guess at them by the rough edges, the way that one blunders through a lightless room. But when he spoke to her like that…

When he spoke to her like that, he sounded like _her._

She bit her lip, hard.

“I’m worried about you, you know.”

She bit down harder, until she tasted blood. _Just a hallucination. That’s all. Auditory hallucinations brought on by trauma and lack of sleep._

A fingertip brushed across her lower lip.

“Look what you’re doing to yourself, chérie, you’re bleeding!” Gerard’s voice was gently, chidingly concerned. Her heart broke.

“Gerard…leave me alone, please!” she begged, blinking away tears, “I need you to go. _Please_.”

“I can’t do that, chérie. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Well…because I’m haunting you.” he said simply. She almost whirled to face him, only remembering that he wasn’t there after she tensed to do so.

“You think I deserve that!?” she demanded, her voice urgent and furious.

“No.” he said, and his voice was a soft, sad counter to her anger, “ _You_ think you deserve that.”

Silenced ruled then, for a long, long while. In time, her tears dried. Gerard stayed mercifully silent.

“Maybe I do…” she murmured, “Maybe I-”

She broke off, sighting down her scope.

_Movement._

 

“First, I’d like to thank you all for coming, especially our guests,” said a tall man with an impeccably English accent and a suit worth more than most cars. His hair was a salt-and-pepper blend that was shaped neatly to disguise the way it had begun to thin on top. He addressed a conference table filled by a mixture of faces in stark delineation. At the head of the table, those closest to him seemed to be clones- imitations of the man addressing them that grew younger the further down they sat. At about the halfway mark of the table, dark suits gave way to lab coats and even one or two pairs of overalls, while the owners of those clothes varied from a pair of Chinese engineers to a trio of scientists with the dusky skin of Southern India. The sole exception was an almost offensively attractive secretary, one of the only women in the room, and certainly the youngest and most…provocatively attired.

“I wanted to give you the low-down on our new contract with Griffon Industries so there aren’t any misunderstandings later,” the man continued in a smooth baritone, “As you know, Shanghai Dynamics is a front-runner in low-cost, high effectivity security drones. This new contract will supply more than two thousand units to be used across Europe at medium and high security installations and businesses.”

He received nods of varying degrees of enthusiasm from those seated around the table, depending on their level of sycophancy. He smiled a smile fit for any dental advertisement, and went on.

“This contract will bring new revenues in, of course, and forge a partnership between our two great companies- but that’s not what we should be focusing on. Here at Shanghai Dynamics, we see these exchanges as more than just another arms deal. What we’re delivering is not weapons, but _order._ The rule of law. You’ve all seen the news; riots, terrorists, rogue Omnics. But no more!”

He gestured theatrically around him, framed by the vast glass windows of the outer wall behind him.

“In the future- the near future, no longer will people live in fear of riots and disorder. In _our_ future, every man, woman and child will be able to stand tall and say ‘I feel safe in my own-‘

His voice cut off suddenly- overthrown by a sharp, almost deafening crack. Less than a second later, the _boom_ of a rifle report echoed through the room. Blood, brains and slivers of skull went flying outward in all directions as the CEO’s headless body dropped with a thump onto the table, then slid slowly down onto the floor.

For a moment, there was simple, stunned silence.

Then the secretary screamed- high, wild and horrified, and _that_ triggered a headlong exodus from the room; scientists, engineers and businessmen pushing one another aside, clambering over the fallen in a simple, primal need to flee.

 

From outside, Amélie observed the man’s fall with a certain, businesslike satisfaction. Then she rose to her knees and began disassembling the rifle with quick and efficient motions. From somewhere behind her, Gerard spoke once more.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“He was going to sell two thousand hunter-killer drones to Talon,” she growled, “I rather think I did.”

“He was a businessman,” Gerard argued.

“I did my research,” Amélie said, stuffing the disassembled rifle into a shoulder bag, “He knew who he was really selling to.”

“And that makes it better?”

“I will do whatever I have to, to make sure Lena can be saved.” Amélie continued, slipping her boot back on and making her way towards the first of several ladders, “I _will_ hack Talon’s hands off one by one, until Winston can invent something to anchor her in time.”

“So you’ll keep killing defenseless businessmen?”

“Two thousand drones would be enough to find and surround them. The investigation into this murder alone will kill that deal with all the delays. I _will_ keep her safe.” Her voice was bedrock firm.

“How very noble of you.” Gerard said, in that way he did when they argued.

_How do I know that? I wonder if we argued a lot…_

“Gerard…” she sighed, sliding down the ladder as fast as she could. It left her on another small platform, and she moved to the second ladder. His next question stopped her cold.

“Do you love her?”

She swallowed roughly, her throat suddenly tight. Her next descent was slower, clumsier. When she reached the third platform, she managed to find her voice once more.

“…I think I do,” she whispered, tears prickling at her eyes, “I’m so sorry, Gerard.”

“You _think_ you do?” Gerard’s voice was as sharp as a whip, “My wife was many things, chérie, but she was never _spineless_.”

“What, you think I have doubts?” she spat, absurdly frustrated by his tone, angry tears blurring her vision.

“No you _idiote,_ I’m a hallucination- _you_ think you have doubts!”

“Urgh!” she groaned, throwing up her hands, “Why am I arguing with a hallucination!?”

“Because you haven’t slept in four days and your girlfriend is probably-”

“Shut. Up.”

She spent the rest of the climb down counting the rungs to block out the voices attempts to torment her. To block out _her_ attempts to torment her.

 

Lena was alive.

She had to believe that, or else what was the point?

 

* * *

 

Inside the headquarters of Shanghai Dynamics, amid all the chaos and the fear, the secretary of the abruptly interrupted meeting shifted her path smoothly from that of her coworkers. Instead of heading down the stairs towards the ‘emergency evacuation point’, she took a right and slipped inside an empty office. Once there, she removed a sleek black phone from her purse and dialed.

It didn’t take long to connect, and when she spoke, it was in a slow, calm rhythm.

“HQ?” she asked the empty line.

“Blue,” a man’s voice responded gruffly.

“Moon,” she said, giving the appropriate counter-sign.

“Go.”

“I have a sighting,” she said, trying to control her excitement.

“Confirmed?”

“No, but highly probable. Nathaniel Blake has just been assassinated. Single shot during a board meeting. Shooter must have been a long way away.”

“But you couldn’t confirm,” the man said skeptically. She sighed.

“It’s her M.O. down to a tee. She’s here.”

“I’ll tell him.” He hung up.

 

Smoothly she slipped the phone back into her pocket and marched out into the hall, joining the milling crowd of black suited employees heading down towards the street. Just another scared-looking office drone among hundreds, albeit one prettier than most. Though outwardly she faked her nervous, wide-eyed look, inwardly she smiled a poisonous little smile.

This year’s performance review was looking up.

* * *

 

_Girona, Spain_

“There he is.”

“Where?”

“Just there, coming in to the left of those clouds.”

“I don’t- oh I see! He’s moving awfully fast.”

“Speed can be deceptive at these kind of distances, Mercy.”

The two figures were stood in short, sun-bleached grass by the side of the smallest airfield Mercy had ever seen- it was little more than an old hangar and a long strip of dry dirt, baked hard by the sun. She and Winston were gazing up at the sky, where a dark shape was silhouetted against the clouds. It was heading straight towards them, and Mercy couldn’t help but feel that it was doing so rather more quickly than it should have been. Winston made a vacillating sound under his breath.

“Okay, he might be coming in a little fast,” he wagered.

“I told you so,” she said, somewhat smugly.

The shape in the sky resolved into a winged dagger of gray metal- a plane, albeit a very small one. It slid down towards the landing strip, lining up with careful adjustments to its angle and elevation. Suddenly, it tilted upwards, bleeding off its excess speed in a burst of yellow and blue flame from its underside. For a moment, Mercy thought that the strange craft had caught fire, but then she understood.

“It’s a VTOL?” she asked incredulously. Winston let out a boisterous laugh of amazement as the plane set down with the burning hiss of superheated metal. Up close, it looked a little larger; like a helicopter with bigger wings and the rotors taken away. Made entirely of a dark looking metal, it bore no obvious weaponry, possibly because it would have detracted from the sleek, special-ops chic of the vehicle, Mercy thought cynically. The side door clicked and swung open, and a short, white haired man of older years, whose wideset shoulders and thick white beard always reminded Mercy of some sort of grumpy Santa Claus, stepped out onto the dirt.

 

“Long time no see, Torbjörn!” Mercy said cheerfully, rushing over to give the short man an enthusiastic hug, “I thought you were going to crash! I didn’t know you were a pilot!”

Torbjörn hugged her back with a fierce intensity, laughing as he did so.

“Ahhh lass, it’s good to see you again! And you Winston!” he said, “And I’m not a pilot, not _really_. The thing flies itself for the most part.”

“It’s an AI?” Mercy leaned back from the hug to stare down at him with a dubious look on her face.

“No! Nonono, not at all!” Torbjörn said, his face twisting up in revulsion, “No, just a brainy computer. Autopilot handles the thing for the most part. I know enough to sort out the tricky bits. Although…” his eyebrows furrowed, “You should be able to run Athena on here, if you wanted, Winston.”

Winston stepped forward, his face set in surprise, “Could we?”

“Oh yeah, I still remember the old code- and the codebase for this thing was built back in the old days, when Athena was compatible with all our stuff! Go grab an external memory core for her and we’ll load ‘er in. I’d rather have her than an autopilot program.”

“Torbjörn, you’re so biased,” Mercy teased, “You don’t want an AI running your plane, but you want Athena?”

“Athena’s doesn’t count!” Torbjörn said defensively, “And anyway, I know _her_.”

 

In short order, Winston returned with a small sphere upon which was mounted a heavy black cable. This he carried with something approaching reverence. That done, they began to load their equipment into the plane; everything they had managed to scavenge and save for, and everything salvaged from the debacle in Barcelona. It didn’t amount to much on a strategic level, but it still filled a dozen black kitbags that Winston carried over both shoulders.

“Dear god, what are you keeping in all this?” Torbjörn asked in mock horror, “There’s not a lot of room left in my bird, here!”

“How many people is it supposed to sit?” Mercy asked as she secured a bag.

“Six and a pilot,” Torbjörn said, raising a finger, “Or Winston and three others.”

“I heard that!” Winston called from the cockpit, where he was attaching Athena to the plane’s computer.

“Anyway, it’s a little of everything,” Mercy explained, tapping the bags in turn, “Medical supplies, weaponry, Winston’s lab work, computer parts…” she lingered over one of the bags, her fingers stroking the black fabric, “Lena’s things…”

Torbjörn settled his hand onto her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t worry, Mercy, we’ll get ‘er back.” he said firmly, “Me and the Spöke won’t let you down!”

“The Spöke?” Mercy raised an eyebrow, “Do I even want to know?”

“The ghost!” Torbjörn said merrily, “It’s a good name for ‘er. She’ll keep us hidden when we want to be, but she’s all on the up and up in any case. Nothing illegal in her for the authorities to get uppity about.”

“And can your feet reach the pedals?” Winston asked, somewhat vindictively, from his cramped position in the cockpit. The shorter man laughed and shook his finger at him.

“There aren’t pedals on a plane, as you’re well aware, Winston! Now are you connecting your damn woman or not?”

“She’s not my _woman_ , Torb! She’s my lab assistant!” Winston insisted- somewhat hastily, if Mercy was any judge. Torbjörn waved a hand dismissively.

“Ah, same thing!”

 

Just as Winston opened his mouth to object, there was a sudden burst of static, then a popping sound. The brief silence that followed was broken by the cheery jingle of a synthetic xylophone. Everyone visibly relaxed as Winston straightened up and squeezed back into the main compartment and out of the cramped confines of the cockpit.

“Is she working?” Torbjörn asked hesitantly. A smooth woman’s alto answered him.

“ _Torbjörn, det var länge sedan vi sågs sist!_ ”

Torbjörn’s eyebrows made a beeline for the roof.

“Athena! It’s good to see you too! I didn’t…didn’t know you could speak Swedish!” he said, an undercurrent of tension in his voice.

“I can speak the two hundred most common languages, and with internet access and sufficient bandwidth, can perform real-time translations in many others.” Athena said smoothly.

“So…ah…whenever I was in the lab, and speaking in Swedish, you-” he mumbled worriedly.

“Yes, I understood you perfectly,” Athena’s voice was possibly just the slightest bit teasing, “However, as an AI, I did not take personal offense. And in the spirit of friendship I will not tell Winston what you were saying about him.”

Winston looked up, his gaze darting between the two of them- or at least between Torbjörn and the cockpit. He growled.

“What he was saying about me? What _was_ he saying about me, Athena?” he asked. Torbjörn mouthed the words ‘Don’t tell’ emphatically towards the computer.

“I’m not supposed to tell you.” Athena said simply. Winston huffed out a breath of frustrated laughter.

“I’m being talked about behind my back and lied to by my own assistant!” He put his hand to his brow in mock exhaustion, “I can’t _work_ in these conditions!”

“I hate to interrupt the improv comedy show,” Mercy chuckled, “But it’s a nine hour flight to Utopaea, and none of us are getting any younger.”

The atmosphere in the cabin sobered abruptly. Torbjörn nodded and made his way up into the cockpit.

“Right you are lass!” he shouted from over one shoulder, “Everyone take yer’ seats and strap in! Welcome to Overwatch Airlines, your emergency exits are to the left and right and also wherever someone blows a hole in us. I’ll be coming round with a drinks cart shortly after takeoff.”

Mercy rolled her eyes expressively as she sat down, clipping the safety harness around her torso.

“At least there’s in-flight entertainment,” she said dryly.

 

* * *

 

_Shanghai, China_

 

That night, they came to kill her.

She must have gotten sloppy, let something slip. No point wondering what it had been, now.

_She crept across the wooden floor, careful not to lean too much of her weight onto any single board for fear of causing a sudden creak that would wake her target. She shifted carefully step by step until she reached the edge of the bed. The pistol was a cool, heavy weight in her right hand, but it felt terribly wrong, and her fingers tightened around it as she looked slowly over her beds- over the beds occupant._

_She looked so peaceful while she was asleep, lying there on her back, one hand on her gently muscled stomach beneath a dark sports bra, the other flat out against the bed._

_She stared down at her, eyes seeming to drink in the sight._

_Something was terribly wrong with this picture. The sleeping girl’s dark brown hair was spread out in a messy halo around her, and she reached a hand down to tuck a lock back into place._

_What was she doing?_

_She bit her lip and raised the gun._

_The girl was a target. Nothing but a target._

_The girl rolled over in her sleep, letting out a groan._

_“Mmmph…Amélie?” she mumbled sleepily._

_Wait. Something was…no, this wasn’t right._

_Her hands were shaking as she lined up her sights._

_Though she leaned her entire body against it, her finger tightened on the trigger._

_“N-Not again!” she pleaded, no longer caring if her target woke._

_Lena’s eyes fluttered open, fixing immediately upon the gun. Her mouth dropped open in horror, her eyes moving up to skewer Amélie with a look of utter betrayal._

_BANG!_

A heavy black boot slammed into the flimsy frame of her hotel door. The door flew inward…for about three inches. Then it hit the dresser she’d rammed up against it before she’d collapsed on the bed, falling into the sleep of the near dead. The boot withdrew and hammered forward again. The dresser shifted, rattling loudly. Someone outside cursed in a language she didn’t speak.

Her eyes flew open, her heart hammering in her chest as her brain confused dreaming and waking for a horrified instant. She looked around, eyes wide, until another kick to the door pushed her violently into motion. Amélie leapt out of bed, rolling to one side and retrieving the pistol stowed beneath her pillow. She did this not a moment too soon, as someone shoved a rifle into the narrow opening of the door and fired wildly, throwing up feathers and stuffing from the bed. She held her fire, slinging her bag up onto her shoulder. Her rifle lay inside, but mostly in pieces. She wouldn’t have anything near the time needed to assemble it.

She made her way to the far wall just as a fourth heavy kick sent the dresser spilling onto its side. She opened fire, dropping the first dark shape that silhouetted the doorway. The man fell away, but he was screaming loudly enough that she knew she hadn’t killed him. She kept up a steady hammering rhythm of shots, thanking whoever was out there for being amateurs. Professionals would have kept coming despite the casualties. They were okay taking a few injuries in return for a confirmed kill. Whoever _was_ out there was just holding back, firing blindly through the door. Probably not Talon, then.

She seized the bedside lamp from the nightstand and smashed the window, scraping the lamp from side to side along the base of the window frame, making sure no large shards were left upstanding. Then she tossed the rope down- she’d tied one end of it to the leg of the bed before she went to sleep. That was the rule; always have a way out. It fell in tight coils, unfurling down into the rear courtyard of the hotel.

_Bang-Bang-Click-_

Her pistol clicked empty and she jumped out the window in the sudden silence. She hissed out a pained breath as her hands burned with the fire of sudden friction, her body taking the rope drop too fast for comfort. Her feet hit the floor hard, jarring her ankles, and she turned and sprinted around the corner of the building, a grim expression of disapproval on her face.

_Sloppy, boys. Very sloppy._

She headed for the back-gate, slowing into the long stride of a tall woman walking alone at night. That wouldn’t arouse too much attention, even if she was a foreigner- and a foreigner with strange skin at that.

 

They had men at the back-gate. The first she knew about _that_ was when someone shouted in Mandarin and her instincts screamed at her to duck. She did, and her ears were ringing with the sound of deafening gunfire before she’d managed more than a simple half-crouch. It probably saved her life. She changed course, performing the waddling, ducked-head sprint universal among soldiers under fire.

 _The side-gate then,_ she thought as she reloaded, cursing the fact that she had so little ammunition for the weapon. It was hard enough to get hold of a gun so far from her usual stalking grounds, and the cheap little pistol felt too light in her hands as she finished the load. She sprinted towards the next corner of the building, the wild shots of the men behind her scattering brick dust into her hair from the impacts they made against the wall. Fortunately, shooting at night and at a lone, darkly dressed target who moved fast was not an ideal situation, and no rounds came close to hitting her.

She cleared the side of the building and ran for the side-gate, a little iron-railinged door that allowed access late at night. As she approached, she saw the silhouettes of men just beyond it, and sped up, all but leaping into the gate. Her booted foot hit the door hard, and sent those heavy railings slamming into the man who stood behind it. He let out a woofing breath of a gasp and went down- somewhat unsportingly, she shot him, then turned and shot his companion too. That done, she bent down; trying to retrieve a rifle from one of them, only to have the straps tangle in his limp, heavy body. As she did so, she caught a sight of his face. He was young, maybe eighteen at the oldest, and his expression, though slackened from the moment of death, was a horrified rictus of surprise. She felt suddenly sick, nausea twisting guiltily in the pit of her stomach.

_Lena wouldn’t have killed them. She would have knocked them out, said something clever, and run off._

She let out a frustrated growl and abandoned the bodies, slipping her pistol into a pocket and taking off once more, trying to lose herself in the city streets. She couldn’t afford to get herself killed over a guilt trip.

 

Thankfully she was nowhere near the city center. She wasn’t as stupid as that; she was near the outskirts and miles from her target’s building. In the old days she’d be out of the country by now, but without Talon’s resources to call on, she had no easy method of transport. Hyper-rail and the smaller, shadier airlines were her method of choice now, and both of those were proving almost ruinously expensive. A shout and a series of gunshots broke her train of thought; she ducked into an alley, pausing only to fire over her shoulder. She wished she had a crowd to lose herself in, but this late the foot traffic was too light for such things.

The chase continued down alleys and twisting, maze like streets. She ran through them with a deceptive ease, like a spider making a sudden dash, her breathing steady and even. As she did so, her programming slowly rose to the forefront of her mind. She had three choices, three outcomes to this particular game. One, she could escape. If she could successfully evade them on foot, that would be that. Two, she could fight. If they were all dead, then she wouldn’t need to evade them. Or three, she could break them. If their morale faltered, they wouldn’t dare pursue her any further. After all, there are only so many times a man can chance a blind alley with a gunman down it.

Option one was proving difficult; the men definitely weren’t Talon; or at least, they weren’t _all_ Talon. It was most likely that their leader and maybe one or two others were officially Talon, while the rest could be anything from police to hired-on locals. Whoever they were, they knew the streets better than she did- a fact they proved when a car roared up to block the road ahead of her, its windows down and sprouting rifle barrels. She threw herself to one side and barely avoided death for a moment more, sprinting down a narrow, trash-filled alley that reeked of rotting fish.

Option two didn’t seem like a good idea. The men were amateurs compared to her, but there were more than a dozen of them, and they had local knowledge and the better armaments. It would only take one ‘amateur’ with a grenade to blow her to pieces. He might blow _himself_ up too, but that wasn’t exactly a comfort to her. She turned and shot a man on foot who’d taken some kind of shortcut to follow her, her first two rounds missing him before one sent him to the ground. She kept running, trying to guess how many rounds she had left. _Eleven? Ten?_

However she looked at it, that wasn’t enough.

 

That left option three, no matter how guilty she might feel about it.

She came out of the alley at a rush, taking a left instead of a right, back towards her pursuers. She crept towards the corner at a low run, hoping that they’d take the predictable route.

She was in luck; a man came sprinting around the corner and right into her suddenly outstretched leg. He tripped into her arms, and she spun him while he was off balance, one arm coming up around his neck, the other pressing the barrel of her pistol to his head. He struggled for a moment, then went rigid as she cocked the pistol- a pointless gesture, but an emphatic one. Seconds later, two of his partners following in his wake turned the corner. They skidded to a halt, coming face to face with her and her hostage.

“Ah ah ah, no closer!” she said loudly, praying that one of the three spoke English. They raised their rifles, but the man she was holding babbled something quickly in a high-pitched voice, and they hesitated. The rifles didn’t lower, but they didn’t fire either. That was something. She began to step backwards, dragging the man with her, but the pursuers matched her step for step. She pressed the gun into her hostage’s head and stared them down.

“Back off or he dies!” she growled. That seemed to get through, at least. The men halted, trading nervous looks. She adjusted her grip on the man she was holding, noticing all of a sudden that he wasn’t exactly a ‘man’- he couldn’t have been older than the young man she’d already killed, and his messy tangle of brown hair reminded her painfully of Lena. His eyes met hers, though he didn’t dare turn his head to face her, and they were wide and utterly filled with fear. She felt sick, looking away before she humanized him anymore.

 _Now,_ the programming said in a smooth whisper, _Shoot them both and kill the hostage before any others arrive._

She shook her head, backing away slowly. The men made no move to follow her, though their faces were clouded with anger. That was fine by her. She walked the boy around the next corner, stepping faster and faster until they were out of sight of the pair, and she could no longer hear footsteps or shouts of pursuit. The boy was weeping now, silently, with the quiet desperation of someone who knew what came next. Her trigger finger twitched.

 _What are you waiting for,_ the programming asked, _they aren’t going to stay cowed for long!_

She ground her teeth together, guilt and shame roiling in her guts.

_Kill him! Kill him kill him kill him kill him! He’s not even a target, just an obstacle! Remove him!_

Lena’s face swam in her vision, her eyes wide, filled with that sickening look of betrayal.

She let out a long sigh that left her feeling drained and empty. She lowered the pistol slowly, pushing the boy and stepping on one of his feet so that he’d fall in a heap. She took a slow step back from him and gestured with the pistol. He stared up at her incredulously.

“Get out of here.”

He tilted his head, like a dog hearing a new sound.

“I said go!” she barked, gesturing a shooing motion with the barrel of her gun.

He rose to his feet, backing away quickly. She sighed again, and turned to go.

 

The boy sprinted around the corner, screaming something in mandarin. She cursed and started running again, her breathing still steady though her eyes were filling with tears.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ The programming raved at her, _You’re weak! You’re foolish…no…you know what you are?_

_You’re defective._

She ran faster, pouring on the speed. The shouting had spread through the surrounding streets, and now echoed from every wall. She should have wondered why so few had been following- they were surrounding her. She took a right, then a left, trying to guess at an escape route, not even sure where she was truly heading. The cries grew closer, and she barely turned a corner ahead of a series of shots that echoed off the walls around her.

 _Just let them kill you,_ the programming growled inside her, _You’re nothing but a defective assassin who thinks she’s a real girl. You’re pathetic._

She turned into a blind alley, past the backs of stores and restaurants, racing down its length in seconds, only to spy a tall wooden fence that blocked her exit. She lifted her wrist and deployed her grapnel. Only nothing happened. She looked down at her bare wrist dumbly.

_Pathetic._

The bag slipped weakly from her shoulders. She didn’t seem to notice.

_Put that gun under your chin and finish the job._

She turned, stumbling backwards until her back rested against the fence. She closed one eye, lifting her pistol, and sighted to the end of the alley. She was going to take at least one of them with her.

A moment passed like a hundred years. Someone turned the corner, and she pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. She stared down at the gun in shock.

A stoppage.

 

Her hand reached out for the slide to clear it, then hesitated, fell away.

_What’s the point?_

The gun dropped from her limp fingers.

The men came around the corner slowly, as if expecting a trap. There were nearly a dozen of them, of varying ages and races, all clearly locals save one man, dressed in the dark fatigues of a Talon officer. The men parted to let him through, avoiding meeting his gaze. He advanced on her, taking his time about it, smiling a mocking little smile that set her blood to boiling.

“Well, you’ve certainly lead us on quite a chase,” the man purred, in an American accent tinged with a hint of the orient, “But I think it’s about time we wrapped this up.”

“Chen.” Amélie’s voice was quiet, emotionless as she recognized the man, “Congratulations. Perhaps they’ll finally promote you.”

 

A door perhaps ten feet ahead of her along the side of the alley opened with a click. An Omnic stepped out, moving with the slow, graceful steps of their kind. Amélie’s eyes widened.

“What’s this?” Chen asked, amused, “You picked a bad time to take out the trash, tin-can!”

“On the contrary,” the Omnic said smoothly, “Although violence is not an answer I prefer to resort to.”

He had a surprisingly fluid voice for an Omnic, a soft tenor that seemed to ooze calm self-control. Amélie’s eyes were still wide orbs as they traced the lines of the Omnic’s clothing. He was a slender man of steel, but his bare frame was draped in cloth of red and saffron yellow, and he wore a long necklace of metal beads in the style of a monk. He turned his head to examine her, and for a moment she was staring at the face of a dead man.

Only after a second’s searching of that face did she spot the difference; a forty-five degree shift of the glowing dots upon his forehead that aligned them in a square rather than a diamond. This was not Mondatta, who she had killed back in London’s King’s Row, thousands of miles from here.

“O-One of the Shambali?” she said incredulously, her voice a bare whisper. The Omnic nodded to her with such grace that it was almost a bow.

“Formerly,” he said easily, “Though I hope one day to return, and share what I have learned.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the Talon leader said, raising a stubby black pistol, “But I have some pressing business with that woman.”

“Ah, my apologies,” the Omnic said, “But it appears I was here first. Perhaps you shall have to try another night.”

Amélie’s eyebrows rose at about the same time as Chen’s did.

“You must be fucking joking! Damn but tin-cans are getting mouthy these days!” Chen laughed, raising the pistol to aim at him. That was apparently a cue, as all the rifles in the alley raised too. Amélie clenched her hands into helpless fists. Chen grinned.

“Got any last words?” he asked, sarcastically. The Omnic monk nodded.

“Yes,” he murmured, then raised his voice as if addressing a congregation. He swept his hand from left to right, as if gesturing to the crowd of mercenaries.

“Human. Omnic. We are all one within the Iris.”

Chen rolled his eyes.

“Kill them.”

 

A brilliant golden light blazed into being, forcing Amélie’s eyes to narrow, then shut for the space of a breath. When she opened them again, the light had dimmed to something merely dazzling. The Omnic monk stood there, his hands spread in a gesture of benediction. The light seemed to emanate from him, and from three extra sets of arms formed entirely of that golden light, spread in various gestures of warding and blessing that were entirely foreign to her.

The bullets that should have killed them were nowhere to be seen. The fire and thunder was a constant, deafening roar at the end of the alley, but no rounds seemed to reach them, seemingly unable to pass into the radius of the monk’s outstretched arms. The gunfire slowed, then staggered to an almost embarrassed halt. The last to cease fire was the Talon leader, who stepped closer and closer, emptying his pistol directly at the Omnic’s head-case, to no visible effect. His slide stayed back as the weapon clicked empty. He swore violently, tossing the gun at the monk, who brushed it aside with one hand, letting it clatter into the side of a trash can behind them.

That done, the light faded, the arms spread around him becoming more and more insubstantial before folding in upon themselves and disappearing. The men in the alley stared at him, as if witnessing a miracle. Several of them made what looked like religious or superstitious gestures of warding. The Talon officer looked back at his men, then at the pair of them, his face reddening.

“What the hell are you waiting for?! Shoot him! Shoot him!”

“I should warn you,” the monk said, raising one silvered hand, “That my pupil would not approve of such an action.”

“Your _pupil_?” Chen asked, dumbfounded.

There was a scream from around the corner; long, loud and terrified. The men turned, backing into the alley, rifles raised.

“W-What does _he_ do?” Chen stammered, his face draining until it was a pale, ghostly white.

“Oh,” the monk replied easily, “Whatever he thinks best.”

 

From the end of the alley came an answer to that single scream; a furious man’s roar, loud and piercing. Despite Amélie’s lack of comprehension, that roar could only have been a battle cry.

**_“Ryujin no ken wo kurae!”_ **

The men opposite them scattered, sprinting in every direction except towards that ringing cry. Two of them kicked down a nearby door and ran inside, while one particularly scared looking youth sprinted towards them, past them, and proceeded to clamber nimbly over the fence. The monk let him do so, while Chen screamed at his heedless mercenaries, trying in vain to restore any semblance of order or morale to them. More screams came from the end of the alley, followed by several thuds.

Chen whirled to face the Omnic, his hands conjuring a little backup piece, fingers shaking. He ground his teeth almost audibly as he spoke.

“You…this is all _your_ fault!” he growled, slowly raising the weapon.

The Omnic bowed his head in a nod and reached up to grasp one of the fist sized metal beads that hung around his neck. He pulled it away with a quiet clink of magnets, the ring reforming, albeit one size smaller.

“It is our choices that lead us to our fates, Chen,” he said softly, “You are your own worst enemy.”

Chen lost his temper, bringing the weapon up towards the Omnic’s head, finger tightening on the trigger.

“Fuck you!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The Omnic flicked his fingers, almost negligently.

There was a solid sounding thump, like a hammer hitting meat.

Slowly, gracefully, Chen crumpled to his knees. His hands cradled the heavy metal ball where it had ended up, nestled just below his solar plexus. He gasped out a choking breath, then toppled face down onto the dirty floor of the alley, unconscious. The monk bowed once more, stepping over to the stunned man to retrieve the metal bead before it could roll away, adding it back to his garland.

 

Finally, the stunned Amélie recovered her powers of speech.

“W-What the- I mean…” she stammered, “Who the hell are you?”

The monk turned and tilted his head at her in a questioning way. She stared at him.

“No offence,” she amended hurriedly, “I appreciate the assistance…it’s just, I don’t know you.”

“Ah,” the Omnic said smoothly, “But I know you, Amélie Lacroix.”

Her eyebrows tried to summit her forehead.

“You do?”

“I know _of_ you,” the tall monk corrected himself with a small nod, “I come to you as a brother in the organization we both share allegiance to.”

“What? You mean Overwatch?” Amélie said, shaking her head, “I’m not a member of Overwatch!”

The Omnic tilted his head in a way that this time suggested amusement.

“Are you not?”

She opened her mouth to reply, then stopped, her face sinking in realization.

“Oh. I suppose…now that I think about it…”

The monk nodded to her as he turned and began to walk, stepping over the unconscious form of Chen and gesturing for her to follow him. Feeling somewhat taken over by events, she did so, pausing only to retrieve her bag.

“My name is Zenyatta,” the monk said softly, “And it is a great pleasure to meet you.”

“Zenyatta…” she murmured, rolling the name over in her mind, “Would you be a…’Tekhartha’ Zenyatta perhaps?”

“Formerly, yes.” he said approvingly, “Me and my pupil heard the word that was put out, and so we decided to see what the commotion was all about.”

“The word?” Amélie asked, hating the plaintive, confused tone of her voice.

“It is not just Talon who seek the pleasure of your company,” Zenyatta said, “But the other side too. We, and all other members of this…new Overwatch, have been instructed to seek you out as well.”

She stiffened suddenly, wishing that she had a weapon.

“Why?” she asked, and this time her voice was as sharp as a knife. Zenyatta turned to face her.

“To bring you home, of course.”

“I don’t have a home anymore, Omnic.” she spat. He made a negligent gesture.

“I don’t mean a home out here,” he waved his hand as if to encompass the whole world, “I mean a home _within._ ” He closed his hand into a gentle fist, and pressed it to the center of his chest.

“…you’ve lost me.” Amélie thought she probably looked at least as bemused as she felt.

“You have walked the dark road, child, and you have wandered far from who you used to be.”

Her eyes widened once more. The Omnic’s voice was almost fatherly as he looked at her, his tone providing the serene smile his face could not display.

“And now we are here. We come to you as guides. We have come to help you home.”

“H-How…” she stammered.

“I have made a study of the process,” Zenyatta said, as if he were describing a particularly difficult recipe, not self-enlightenment, “And my pupil has walked as dark a path as yours.”

 _That wasn’t what I was asking, but never mind,_ she thought. Out loud she said-

“Your pupil? Who is _he_?”

 

From out of the shadows stepped a nightmare of shadow and steel, bearing a slender, deadly looking blade. His body radiated a cold green light, and he moved with the smooth grace of a hunting cat. Beside her, Zenyatta made a gesture of greeting as he spoke.

“He…is a good person, when he chooses to be,” he said softly, “As are you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, new chapter! Welcome back, folks!  
> This is the first chapter of 'Adrift', what I consider part two of Alive.  
> We have a very brief time skip, and a lot of viewpoint changes going on, but bear with me!  
> Hopefully you like this chapter as much as the others, though I know we all miss Tracer. Rest assured she will feature in the next chapter. For now she is sadly relegated to plot device.
> 
> Views and kudos are loved, comments are ADORED, and as always; Thank you for reading!  
> For commissions, email Hiroshi_Nakano@hotmail.co.uk  
> For feeding me ramen, see https://digitaltipjar.com/SatsunonSavior/

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This fic started as a time killer between the end of the Overwatch beta and release, but now has become something of a labor of love. I've always loved the interactions between Tracer and Widowmaker, and I loved them even more after reading up on Widowmaker's backstory.
> 
> Keep in mind, this is just my interpretation of the characters from limited source material, your interpretations may differ and that's okay, be excellent to each other, etc.
> 
> If people like it, I will write more, if they don't, I won't.  
> Views and Kudos are awesome, comments are GREAT! And as always, thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm offering commissions at; Hiroshi_Nakano@hotmail.co.uk  
> And if you want to buy me ramen, you can at https://digitaltipjar.com/SatsunonSavior/
> 
> Edit log: Removed most of Widowmaker's awful french accent. I'm sick of reading it, writing it, and upon a long Widowmaker game, I realized she doesn't even fucking SOUND like that.  
> Edit log 2: Woo! 10k hits! You guys rock <3


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